03 A Normal Life
by Thescarredman
Summary: It's not easy being the new kid in school, especially when you're different. It's worse when a you're a Gen, a runaway genetic experiment trying to keep a low profile, and you can baton twirl a school bus. Way worse, there's that other thing Gens do...
1. Geeks Rule

March 19 2004  
MacArthur University  
San Diego

Joel Richards was a nerd. He'd never owned a pocket protector; the bridge of his glasses wasn't mended with tape – he wore contacts; his clothes were unremarkable in style and color and fit properly. His handheld was state-of-the-art, but it resided in his bookbag, not a belt holster. Just the same, he was the biggest geek in school. When it comes down to it, geek is what geek does.

Joel and his sister had picked MacArthur for different reasons: she for its Southern California lifestyle and accomplished art school, he for its first-rate tech programs, which rivaled those of a rather bigger and more famous school in nearby Pasadena. He was doing third-year work at twenty, and intended to graduate at the very top of his class at twenty-one and take his pick of the obscenely generous job offers the tech outfits would dangle. He avoided fluff courses like poison; even his forced electives were skull-crackers, albeit outside of his field. He couldn't afford to be slowed down.

As far as the rich panoply of college life was concerned, Joel took a narrow view. He had zero interest in sports, school politics, or social events. Gossip he overheard in the halls was just goose-gabble; he never knew who the people he overheard were talking about, and usually didn't know who the speakers were, either. After nearly two years at MacArthur, he recognized more teachers' names than students', and knew no more than three people he'd spend an hour with by choice. He told himself he didn't mind the glances he got from other students in the halls or classrooms; didn't mind that girls looked right through him, or that he always ate alone. He was sure there'd be time for friends when he could afford to buy the kind he wanted; women, too. Until then, he kept mostly to himself and studied like his whole future depended on it.

And yet, rumors of the new kids in school managed to penetrate his cocoon. They'd only hit campus two days before, but wherever he went, the gossip, usually scattershot and easily ignored, was focused solely on them, and some of it stuck to his mind as he went about his business.

There was a lot to gossip about, apparently. Starting with the fact that there were five of them. They arrived at school together every day, he'd heard, but they didn't look like a family. Speculation had it that at least two of them were adopted. Even Joel was impressed by the kind of money it must cost to put five kids through MacArthur at once; only his nearly free academic ride allowed his parents to put his mopey sister Melanie through her expensive but worthless liberal-arts education.

Another thing was the odd time they'd picked to change schools. This late in the semester, he hadn't known it was possible even to enroll; the school was already filling seats for summer classes. Money again, he supposed. He idly wondered what their folks did for a living that paid so well yet forced them to pull up roots with so little warning. His parents had moved near campus and changed jobs to cut housing costs for him and Mel, but they'd planned the move a year in advance.

And then, apparently, they were all hot. Three of the five were girls, and they were monopolizing the fantasy lives of the local wolves. Guys around here were always looking for strange, and any new girl who didn't spit between her teeth was bound to get some attention, but he'd never sensed _this_ degree of fascination before. And the local skanks were behaving the same way over the two boys. He hadn't seen any of them yet, but he was sure he'd recognize them from the way the other students drooled at their approach.

Second class on Friday was a physics lab. The class mostly divided into assigned pairs at the worktables around the room, and developed experiments to prove or disprove assumptions provided by Professor Zysik. There were seventeen students in the class this time, however, which Joel took as an opportunity. He'd requested his own bench, rather than get stuffed in a threesome with two random numbers. Over the past two years, he'd carried plenty of lab partners rather than risk getting his grade pulled down, and this class had been kind of a relief.

He was always the last one into lab, because his previous class was all the way across campus. He didn't mind. The first five minutes of Zysik's class was usually socializing anyway, so he arrived just in time to start work.

But before he even entered the classroom, he knew something was up: the crowd noises inside the room were different. Rather than half a dozen conversations vibrating the walls, only one or two voices at a time came into the hall. And one of them was always female, like it was a question-and-answer session. He opened the door and stepped into the big room, and saw he'd been right about the new students. They were easy to spot by their wakes.

The class's three regular female students stood by their benches, pretending to be setting up but not getting much done. All the guys in class were gathered around a new girl at the back corner, a very sweet-looking redhead. Joel could only see her from the neck up; she was completely surrounded by jostling admirers two and three deep, and looked like she was standing on one of the lab's little footstools to keep from being trampled. Guys were firing questions at her faster than she could answer, and you could see she was getting flustered.

Zysik, a little guy with a wild shock of black hair and thick round glasses, looked up from a conversation with one of the girls at his desk. "_Enough_, already," he said in his faint accent. "Everyone to their benches and let's start." He got up and approached the crowd.

The mob parted reluctantly and drifted to their benches, and Joel got a couple of surprises. First, he got a better look at the new redhead. She hadn't been standing on a stool; she was just six inches taller than anyone else. And even in slacks and a loose sweater, it was obvious she had the body of a Vegas showgirl. Second, Joel suddenly realized, the event had taken place at his workbench, and she wasn't going anywhere.

Zysik approached her, smiling; as he did, he turned to Joel and gestured impatiently, and that was when Joel realized he'd frozen at the door. The professor smiled up at her and cupped a hand to the side of his mouth, as if to tell a secret. She bent down, turning her ear to the little nerd and her face to Joel at the same time. She smiled at Joel briefly as Zysik spoke a few words, then straightened.

Zysik's voice was crisp. "_Well_, Mr. Richards. Your life of isolation is about to end." He nodded towards the girl. "Caitlin Fairchild, Joel Richards. You'll be partners for the remainder of the semester. Try to get along."

It was all he could do to keep from groaning out loud. This was absolutely the _last_ thing he needed. Not only was he saddled with this prom queen through his last and most important lab, there'd probably be guys cluttering his work space all the time, hampering his progress.

The redhead's look of relief as she looked him over and offered a hand did nothing for his outlook. "I'm sure we will, Professor." No doubt she was glad to be foisted off on the class's high scorer, so he could pull up her GPA while she checked her makeup.

He gave her a one-second handshake, just a squeeze, really, and Zysik nodded. "I really don't expect you two to have problems getting up to speed. But if you do, call me. Please." He left.

Best to get the nuts and bolts of their "working" relationship out in the open, he thought, and establish their roles. "Here. I've got the prelims worked out already. Take a look." He passed his notes to her, and waited for it to sink in how out of her depth she was, sharing a table with him. Then he'd offer a couple of options.

She made a good show of looking through the six pages of close-written formulas and description. About halfway through, he said, "You know, you could probably get any guy in class to switch partners for you."

"Why break up a team that's been together all semester?" She didn't even look up. "I'm guessing the Professor had his reasons for pairing us off anyway." So much for option number one, he thought. She reached the bottom of the last page, and looked down at him. "Are these your only copy?"

About what he'd expected: she'd add her name to a copy of his report and let him do the work. It was the best he could have hoped for. "Yeah. For now."

"Then I won't mark them up. But I think we're going to need to do a redesign."

The world seemed to tilt a degree. "What?"

She flipped back to page two and tapped a paragraph. "Starting here. I suggest we give some thought to reducing the environmental variables. Otherwise, half our report's going to be attempts to explain why our observed data don't match the values predicted by theory. I'd rather spend my time tightening the experiment beforehand than making excuses afterward." She gave him a direct and candid look. "Wouldn't you?" She took out a notebook and made a quick sketch, followed by a couple of graphs. "Look this over and compare it to your concept."

He blinked at it. He could clearly see where she was headed, and it would work, and probably yield better results. He couldn't believe he'd missed this option when he'd been turning the experiment over in his head.

Something made him glance to the front of the room. From his desk, Zysik was watching them, a strange little smile on his face. "Caitlin. Right?"

"Call me Kat. Almost everyone does."

"Kat, what did Zysik say to you when I first came in?"

Her eyelids drooped. "He said, 'Go easy on him. He thinks he's the smartest guy in the room.'" She spread her textbook out on the bench and pulled up a seat. "I suppose it amused him to put the school's two biggest overachievers on the same team, so we can annoy only each other."

Zysik gave a short lecture about the lab subject, then turned the students loose to work on their projects. As he'd expected, several guys had decided to make a project out of Kat. She was polite, but made it clear she was busy and wanted to get back to work, and they drifted back to their tables. She looked at him with a little crease between her eyebrows. "How do you get anything _done_?"

He refrained from pointing out that all their visitors had come to see her; most hadn't wasted more than a word or two on him. "The Professor runs a loose ship," he observed. "He's got a lot of respect for initiative."

She was crunching numbers on a handheld that was identical to his. He watched, fascinated, as her fingertips blurred over the tiny keys. She turned the unit around and showed him the final number. "There. MOE down to three percent so far. I think we can still find lots of fat to trim on the second series."

"I've been working on that." He showed her a sketch and eleven lines of notes.

She studied it, then nodded. "It's going to be good working with you, Joel."

The remark flustered him. "Ah, thanks. You too. I'm surprised."

The girl raised her eyebrows. The bright green eyes reminded him of a cat crouching in a garden. "Surprised how?"

He tried to pass it off as a joke. He gave her a smile and an eyebrow shrug. "Girls who look like you aren't supposed to be smart."

Her eyes dropped back to her book. "And guys who look like you are supposed to be charming. I guess we both break the mold."

The classtime spooled out, and he began putting things away. Two guys sharing a nearby bench had their stuff stowed already and were just sitting, apparently waiting; which was odd, since Zysik didn't make a big deal about early exits. He stood and hoisted his bag, and saw the other two suddenly do the same. _Aha._

"We're supposed to start running experiments Monday, but I don't think we're ready yet." Kat tapped a pencil eraser against her lower lip. "What are you doing this weekend, Joel?"

The floor tilted again. "What?"

She was still sitting, but she didn't have to tip her head very far to meet his eye. "I _need _this lab. It's all the teacher will have to judge me on, and this class is a pass-fail for me. And it's a prereq to the physics class I'm taking this summer."

He knew the class she was talking about. "Nobody takes that in the summer. It's got something like a thirty percent drop-fail rate the rest of the year, and summer session's three weeks shorter."

"And it's a prereq to one I've got my eye on for fall. I can't afford to waste time." She hesitated. "If you don't want to get together, I understand. I'll just work it up and let you look it over."

His skin felt oddly stretched and prickly. "Kat, are you offering to carry me?"

"If I have to. It's not like you're not capable, we've just got time constraints."

His pulse thudded in his ears. "Name the time and place."

"Tonight, around six," she said decisively. "In case we need to gather resources and get back together Saturday or Sunday. Do you have Internet at home?"

"Home? Uh, sure. DSL."

"Done then. I'll need your address and number."

While he was writing it down, the two guys drifted towards the door, probably planning to ambush her in the hall. She watched them go. "Are you leaving, or staying to talk?"

"Out of here, or I'll be late to class."

"Walk me out?"

Other students were glancing their way; just looking her over, or watching how the two of them were getting along? "Sure."

As they walked out the door into the hall, she kept up a running chatter, leaving the two loitering at the door no opening for a conversation. "I didn't know MacArthur's Science and Technology school was a Caltech affiliate. That explains the course quality. Have you ever picked up a distance learning course from Pasadena?"

"Not yet. Won't, if I don't have to. I prefer my teachers face-to-face." They walked down the hall to its first junction, and they hesitated. "I go this way."

"I go the other." She flicked a glance back down the hall, where their two classmates were pretending not to watch. "Thanks."

Feeling uncharacteristically charitable, he said, "They're not dangerous or anything. They just want to get to know you."

"I don't want them to get to know me. I don't have time for that."

He smiled at her, which felt right and kind of weird at the same time. "What, exactly, _is_ this goal you're rushing towards?"

"I want to finish my postgrad work and be out of here by the time I'm twenty-one." She turned down the hall.

"Post-" He took a step after her. "How old are you _now_?"

"Seventeen and a half," she said without slowing. "But people say I'm very mature for my age."

As the afternoon progressed, he noticed something curious. He wasn't picking up snippets of gossip in the hallways anymore. People shut up whenever he got close.


	2. Assumptions

"Joel," Melanie said, amazed, "you're having somebody _over_?"

"Lab partner." Her brother's tone was offhand, but there was nothing casual about the way he was bustling around their little three-bedroom like an appraiser on a tight schedule. "We made some eleventh-hour changes in physics lab, so we've got to hustle to catch up." He entered the open kitchen area and looked into the fridge. "Do we have _anything_ to eat besides leftovers?"

Lori and Alex, girlfriends and fellow musicians, had come home from school with her. From the kitchen table, they watched with raised eyebrows as Joel went through the living room, picking up. Not that most of the clutter wasn't his anyway, but she'd never seen him so concerned about making an impression. Lori turned a heavily-mascara'd eye towards her; the black-painted lips stretched in a wicked little smile. "Lab partner's not a _girl_, is she, Reed?"

"Don't call me Reed. It's ridiculous. Yes, she's a girl." He continued to load his arms with books and techie magazines.

"A _real_ girl?" Alex pressed. "Like, with breasts and everything? Not some wraith with welder's goggles for glasses and ratty hair?"

"Stuff it, Alex. Why don't you three just be gone when she gets here?" He took his load past the kitchen, disappearing into the bedroom annex.

Lori raised her eyebrows. "Do you think?"

She shook her head. "No. I can't even imagine it. He hasn't even met a girl for coffee since we came here. I'm sure she's some sexless brainiac he's enlisting to help pump up his grade. But I thought he was working alone this semester."

Joel hustled back and cast another look around the room. "When are Mom and Dad coming home?"

The three girls shared a look. "Dad's out of town, Clueless. Mom works late Friday nights, but she's home by eight-thirty, like clockwork. _Honestly_."

"Do you know where Dad keeps the key to the office? I'm going to need the computer."

"He needs to keep his client records confidential, Joel. What's wrong with yours?"

He looked at her as if she were an idiot. "It's in my _bedroom_. Besides, we need room to spread out." Alex snorted, and he drilled her with a look. "On second thought, stay. Maybe some of her maturity will rub off." He glanced at his watch. "Just enough time for a shower. Can I trust you to catch the door if she comes early? And not embarrass me?"

She nodded. "Oh, _sure_," Lori chimed in.

After he left, they got back to the discussion they'd been having when her brother had burst through the door. The three of them were the remaining members of the Sirens, a student garage band. They'd played a few gigs, as much for fun and experience as profit, and had gotten decent reviews and word-of-mouth. But their fourth member, the second guitarist, was graduating, and had already quit to finalize plans to leave San Diego. They were running through a few possibilities for a replacement.

"We want to stay an all-girl band?" Lori looked through the list they'd put together. Of six people who'd responded to the posted notices in student union and the website billboard, four were guys.

"We want to stay worth listening to. All-girl was just the way it worked out the first time."

"And it worked out good," Alex put in. "It's a draw. A lot of guys come to our shows just to see four chicks on stage."

"Is that why we're doing it?" She lifted the list to her face to hide her smile. "I thought we were dedicated to our art."

"It's easy to keep your edge when you're playing to a roomful of horny college boys. Besides… one guy on guitar in a four-piece band might get ideas he's the leader. Or think he's got a harem. And I can see all sorts of complications, starting with song selections."

"That would eliminate the best player on our list."

"Best instrumentalist," Lori corrected. "He can make a bass do anything, but he sings like Bob Dylan with a cold. Not our style."

"Okay." She drew a line through the name. "On technical merits, not because he's a guy. I'm not convinced gender should be an issue." Ten minutes later, the list was reduced to two girls and a guy, and they agreed to set up auditions.

The doorbell rang. Lori balled a fist. "Scissors, paper, rock?"

"My house." She got up. "What do you think? Butch androgyne, or timid little mouse?" The other two trailed her to the door. "Let her get inside, at least."

She put her eye to the peephole, but what she saw didn't register at first. Instead of viewing their visitor's head, she was looking at the base of her throat, and nothing else. She swung open the door. And looked up. Behind her, Alex said softly, "Caramba."

It was one of the new girls, Caitlin something-or-other, the one the campus wits had nicknamed "Fantasy." Melanie hadn't met her, or any of them, but this one had made her presence on campus known in a big way. Mel had actually seen two guys run into each other as they watched her walk by, just like a comedy skit. Way over six feet tall, shining red-gold hair, bright green eyes, huge girls. She held a laptop case to her flat stomach. "Hi. I'm looking for Joel. Am I in the right place?"

Behind her, Lori said, "I don't know about being in the right place, but Joel's here."

She stepped aside to let her in. "I'm Joel's sister Melanie. The Goth wench is Lori. And this is Alex."

"I'm Kat. I'm Joel's partner in physics lab."

"Come on into the living room. He's in the shower. Just transferred in, right? Where from?"

"Uh, Rutherford. It's a sort of exchange program." They watched her ease into the cushions, bumping her shins on the coffee table.

Rutherford was an old East Coast school, about the snootiest in the Ivy League. So she was gorgeous and rich too. "I thought they were all business and law."

"They've been branching out for a few years now. Their computer degrees are first-rate."

"That's your major? _Computers_?" Alex looked about to say something else, but stilled at a look from Lori.

Kat nodded. "Physics minor. Just lately, though, I'm rethinking my choices for postgrad work. I might want to switch from electrical engineering courses to robotics." She looked around. "What about you guys?"

"Education." Alex's look was challenging. "I might want to teach."

"Tough job." Kat tried to cross her legs, hooked a toe on the edge of the table, and put it down again. "When you're good at it, though, it's got to be rewarding."

"Art school. Visual media." A faint smile curved Lori's lips. "I like paint."

"Have you shown anything yet?"

"Only to friends. I save my exhibitionism for the stage."

"Oh. Drama?"

"Keyboard. We're all in a band. Alex on drums, Mel's guitar. She's the music major."

"Really." The beauty queen turned to her. "I assumed you were a journalism student."

She raised her eyebrows. "Really."

"That was your story in the school paper this week, right? Melanie Richards?"

"You've been here two days and found time to read the school paper?"

"I picked up a copy at lunch today. I couldn't put it down. Comparing campus politics to a prairie dog town…" She grinned. "I'll never look at student elections the same way."

"Kat," she said, "Would you like to sit at the kitchen table? More leg room."

A minute later, the four of them were seated around the kitchen table, drinks in hand. Kat sipped tap water.

Lori looked at Kat over her glass. "So, what's Rutherford like?"

"To tell the truth, I didn't like it much. I had a hard time making friends." Kat brought the glass to her lips. "You know what it's like when you're different."

Alex coughed into her glass. "Went down the wrong pipe."

Lori raised her black-painted eyebrows. "What would I know about being different?"

"I didn't mean-" Kat colored and shook her head. "Goth looks good on you, Lori. My sister goes Goth sometimes, too. Some girls can pull it off. I'd look like the Bride of Frankenstein."

Joel entered the kitchen, took one look at the tableau, and glowered. "What have you been doing to her?"

Kat smiled at him. "We're just making friends. I'm having a very good time."

"They're liberal arts majors. I can't be held responsible for their actions."

"I have a great deal of respect for the arts, Joel," she said seriously. "What we do quantifies the universe and brings it to heel. What your sister and her friends do gives life its savor, and makes everything else worth doing."

He looked at her as if she'd spoken Mandarin. "Huh. Well, I'm ordering pizza. What do you want on yours?"

"Pepperoni, sausage, extra cheese," Alex piped up.

He gave her a withering look. "You're staying?"

"Long enough to eat pizza if you're buying, cheapskate."

Kat said, "Anything you want is fine with me. But order an extra one. I eat a lot."

"And never gain a pound, I suppose," Alex said in an odd voice.

"Well, I work out a lot, too. And I've got a turbocharged metabolism." She suddenly set her glass down. "Oh, _drat_. Forgot. I have a date, sort of."

"Sort of?" Lori looked at the other two girls.

Joel deflated. "Oh. Well. Maybe tomorrow, then?"

"Course not. School comes first. He'll understand. I just wish I'd called sooner. Scuse." She stood and headed down the hallway towards the bathroom, cellphone in hand.

"Pizza, before she changes her mind." Joel stared at the empty phone cradle on the wall. "Where's the freakin _phone_?" He left for the living room.

Lori lifted an eyebrow at Alex. "Hate her?"

"With all my heart. 'He'll understand.'" Alex shook her head. "Of _course_. _Any_ bullshit excuse would be okay, coming from someone like _her_."

"_Alex._" Melanie frowned at her. "She seems perfectly nice."

"Bet her manners are as fake as her chest. Coming out of _her_ mouth, 'no friends cuz I'm different' sounds too much like 'don't hate me cuz I'm beautiful.'" She blew out. "_And_ a frickin genius. _And_ rich. She's laughing at all of us, Mel." She stood.

"Where are you going?"

"I just want to hear how she's handling the poor sap she's ditching tonight." Alex slipped quietly into the hallway; after a brief nonverbal exchange, she and Lori followed.

Kat's voice came faint but clear through the bathroom door from four feet away, pitched low and confidential. Melanie was sure Kat thought she was private. But her voice just seemed too big for the room, somehow. "Oh, _tell_ me about it. These past three days have been like training to parachute behind enemy lines. I could wish your father had a _little_ less confidence in us. But I'm finally getting a handle on my course load, and I think I made some friends today. My new lab partner's the best, and I met his sister and a couple of her girlfriends. Real people, nothing like those harpies at Rutherford. They make me almost feel at home."

Alex turned to her, eyes round.

"Which brings me to why I called, Bobby. I-" A long pause. "You could be a little less noble about it, it only makes it worse. I'm sorry, Bobby. I know going to concerts alone isn't much fun. But I _have_ to sweep this lab."

Lori mouthed silently, "Bobby?" with raised eyebrows. "Bobby" had to be Bobby Lynch, one of the newcomers and an instant source of prurient speculation among the female half of the student body, including the three now standing in the hall. And, by unanimous opinion, fully worthy boyfriend-bait.

They heard a heavy sigh. "If only we'd had more than three days to meet people. If we'd hit campus last week, I bet you wouldn't have any trouble finding someone to take. Not to an Emergence concert."

Tickets to tonight's Emergence concert at the Civic Theatre had disappeared half an hour after they'd gone on sale three months before. A band that regularly sold out stadiums, Emergence had somehow got booked into a venue with fewer than three thousand seats, and kids all over San Diego County were offering their rent checks to scalpers without scoring.

"Wait. I've got the germ of an idea. Bobby… Joel's sister is a music major. She's in a band. She even plays _guitar_. I could ask her to take the ticket." Another pause. "I _told_ you. She's nice. Great personality, wicked sense of humor… Huh? Since when do _you_ care about looks?" Another pause, then a chuckle. "Well, _fine_ then. Five-seven, five-six maybe. I won't guess her weight, but she's got a perfect figure. Not like me, the walking flotation device." The bitter tone in Kat's voice left no doubt of her sincerity. "Dark brown eyes, your favorite. And she's got the most _gorgeous_ hair: a little wavy, shoulder length, about ten different shades of brown from dark honey to chocolate, all blended together." A pause. "Well, I can't promise anything. Chances are she's got a boyfriend, or at least a date. I doubt she ever spends a night at home except by choice."

She felt her face flaming. She'd had precisely three dates in six weeks; she spent most of her nights at home or at practice. Lori stared at her in horror, grabbed her wrist, and tugged her away from the door as Kat said, "All right then. I'll ask her and call you back." Alex put her back against the door and waited.

The two of them nearly ran Joel over in the hallway. "What are-"

"Shut up," Lori hissed. "Out of the way. Don't say a word till I say it's okay, or so _help_ me, you won't live to regret it."

Down the hall, she heard the bathroom door open. "Oops," Kat said. "Were you waiting?"

"Just got here," Alex answered. "Hey. Think you're gonna go out for sports?"

"Don't know. I like swimming. But I don't know what to try out for."

While Alex stalled, she and Lori dropped into the couches. She draped her arm off the side, while Lori sat opposite with a leg thrown across the cushions, both of them looking perfectly relaxed and casual. Down the hall, they heard the bathroom door shut.

Lori shot a warning glare at Joel, who busied himself with his lab notes.

Kat came into the room and stood between the couches. "Melanie. I know we only just met. But I need to ask you a favor, a big one. Are you doing anything tonight?"

She pretended to consider. "Sure. Nothing I can't break, though. What's on your mind? Want me to check your math?"

"The guy I had a date with tonight. I'm making him throw away a fortune in concert tickets, and I've got the guilts. He's a musician too. I was hoping… maybe you'd take my place? He's really sweet, a perfect gentleman, and good company, too. Really."

She raised an eyebrow. "A blind date? Not my usual night out."

Joel cleared his throat. Lori said, "Want something for that, Reed?" He shook his head once and stuck his nose back in his notebook with a little smile on his face.

She looked from Kat to Joel. "I could, I suppose. Just so you and big brother can get your A with a clear conscience. But, you know, I'm not used to being any guy's second choice."

Kat gave her a tired little smile. "You aren't. I was."


	3. Date Night, Sort of

"I hope you're okay with the ride. I didn't pick it out. It came with the tickets."

Melanie snuggled deeper into the thick upholstery and took a deep breath, filling up with the smells of leather and polish. "No complaints."

Bobby shifted in the seat beside her. "I mean, I don't want you to think I'm… trying to impress you."

"Never fear." She looked straight ahead, avoiding his eyes. "If I seem awestruck at being treated like a rock star, I'm not. I'm just very, very comfortable."

He huffed, and she was pleased to see she'd gotten a brief smile out of him. He was even dreamier close up than her first look at him yesterday in commons. He'd shown up for their "date" dressed just as Kat had said he would, in jeans and flannel and no jewelry but a plain watch, but with a fresh shave and every hair in place. And in a black Mercedes limo, which she _hadn't_ warned her about; a crowd had gathered before it came to a stop in the driveway. "I'm not. Fancy cars make me uncomfortable. But I'm glad you're tripping on it."

"This is going to be a lot better than fighting traffic in and out of the Civic Theatre, believe me. How did you score this?"

He huffed again. "By trying to be a smartass. My father gets an urge to play Santa once in a while. Typical divorced-parent stuff, I'm told. He told me to let my imagination run free. I thought I was calling his bluff by asking for concert tickets for a band he'd never heard of, sold out for months, and just two days away. He dropped them in my hand the next afternoon. And whatever he paid, I'm sure he thought it was worth it to see my jaw hit my chest. So, for tonight, I guess we party like rock stars." He gave her an appraising look. "I've got coke, if you want any." Her heart leaped into her throat before he leaned forward to pull open the tiny refrigerator. "Regular or diet? I'm guessing diet."

Relief flooded her. _Maybe he isn't too good to be true. _"I look like I'm on a diet?"

He nodded seriously. "And it's working."

That produced a tingle in her belly; she didn't think jeans and flannel had ever looked so good on anybody. "Give me the diet, smartass." They popped tops and swigged, ignoring the crystal goblets in the rack. "So, do you and your dad get along?"

"Get along… I guess. That's about it. He wasn't around when I was a kid. I guess I've got some acceptance issues."

"What about your mom?"

"Dead." He sipped his drink. "How bout your folks?"

"Working all the time. Dad travels to L.A. about one weekend a month. Mom pulls fifty-hour weeks at a bank. It's been like this since we moved here." She looked out the dark-tinted windows at the early-evening traffic. Cars on either side were jockeying around, their occupants trying to peer inside the limo.

"Kat likes your brother. Not _like_ likes. She doesn't collect boyfriends. Doesn't do the boyfriend thing at all, actually. But she's having fun touching foreheads with him over schoolwork, I can tell."

She thought about quizzing him about his connection to Kat, but refrained. She was now sure that she wasn't his girlfriend; _ex_-girlfriend, maybe, but if so, that was best not talked about.

-0-

"It was nice of Lori and Alex to stick around for a while, don't you think?"

Sitting at the kitchen table, Joel watched Kat's fingers fluttering over the keyboard of her laptop. "We didn't get a thing done while they were here. They only wanted to jerk my chain. They were teasing me about having a girl over before you showed up."

"Why does Lori call you 'Reed'?"

"Just a stupid joke. Reed Richards is-"

"The clueless genius from the Fantastic Four." She smiled without looking up. "I'll bet Alex teases you a lot."

"Yeah, she's a total pain in the ass." He concentrated on sketching a graph of predicted results for the third series.

"Cute, though."

"If you like the type."

The smile got a little wider. "Do _you_ like the type?"

"What?"

She stopped and looked at him. "You _can't_ be that clueless."

"Phuh. If I ever came on to her, she'd never come to the house again." He turned his notebook around for her to see. "Prelims for series three."

She studied it and nodded, then turned her laptop around to show him a data table. "Possible deviations in series two due to atmospheric temperature and humidity. The building's air-conditioned, of course, so all we have to do is take measurements when we start. Bet this'll bring our MOE below one percent."

He glanced at the dataset, then at the URL displayed across the top: it appeared she'd gotten her data from a DOD website, and not a public-relations one. The girl knew how to _surf_.

He spent an extra moment looking over her computer. It was state-of-the-art, no surprise. Then he looked again at the wall phone jack, and the lighter-sized gadget she'd plugged into it when she'd removed the phone. Whatever it was, it let her access the Web without plugging in a cable, carrying her laptop all over the kitchen, and the data rate was higher than he'd thought you could wring out of a phone line. "Where'd you get that gadget?"

"Um, you can't buy it here yet. Our sponsor travels all over the world, and he picked it up for me."

He gave a mental shrug and turned the screen back around. "The work you did already is worth an A, before we ever run an experiment. You're a genius."

"No slouch yourself. You took my idea and _ran_ with it. Want a printout?"

"Ah, my printer's in my room. Got a stick?"

"No need." She tapped a few keys, studied the results, and tapped a few more. "Should be coming out now."

"You're shitting me."

She gave him an odd smile. "Bet?" She pulled a slice of pizza from one of the boxes and took a bite. "If it's not there, I pay for the pizza."

"Already paid for."

"Fine then. Name it." She took a second bite, chewing lustily.

He'd never understand why he said it. "Picture of you in a bikini."

She spit out a wad of cheese and looked at him with eyes that shone like car headlights. "Seriously? What would you _do_ with it?"

He gave her a pinkie-tip to the corner of his mouth and a Doctor Evil simper. "The possibilities are endless." He grinned at her. "What's wrong? Don't want to put your money where your mouth is?"

Her eyes narrowed. "And what if it's there? Name it?"

He swallowed. "Name it."

She tore a sheet of paper from her notebook and jotted a quick note. Then she folded it and put it in his hand. "Deal. If it's not there, you hand that back unread and you've got your picture. You can take it yourself, even. But if it is, you do what the note says."

He shuffled down the hallway with the note burning his hand. He opened his bedroom door and flipped on the light. The report lay in the out tray of his printer.

He rubbed the notepaper between his fingers. Then he stepped in front of his printer, to hide it from the door. "Kat," he called. "Do you _own_ a bikini?"

"_No._" He heard her zip down the hall. "I mean yes, but…" She came into his room and shoved him aside. Big girl or not, her strength was a surprise. She looked at the tray and glared at him, but it was good-natured, he could tell. "Twerp." She pointed at the note in his hand. He opened it and read.

**_Within the next ten days, take Alex on a date._ **

He raised his eyes from the note. Kat was staring back, expectant. He shook his head. "Impossible. You don't know what you're asking."

"Did I try to back out when you wanted to see me out of my clothes?"

He huffed. "I'll try. But I'm not good with girls. I can't promise anything."

"Yes you can." She smiled wide. "Like I said, guys who look like you should be charming."

"This from the girl who's got no time for guys."

"_Joel?_" His mother's voice, from the hall. She poked her head into his open door, eyes wide.

He was mildly embarrassed at his mother catching him in his room alone with a girl. _Then_ he replayed the conversation she must have overheard, and enough heat rose to his face to singe his eyebrows. One glance at Kat told him her mind had been sprinting down the same path. "Uh, hi, Mom." He pulled the sheets from the printer. "We're just working on a school project." She was staring at Kat, who had trouble meeting her eyes. "This is my lab partner, Kat. Kat, my mom."

"How do you do, Mrs. Richards." Kat stepped towards the door and offered a hand. "I don't suppose you find strange girls in your son's room every day, but we were just running some copies off the printer."

Mom had recovered from her little surprise, enough to take Kat's hand, at least. "Well, one could hope," she said cryptically. "Have you known my son long, Kat?"

"Met him today, actually. But he makes a very good first impression."

"_Does_ he," she said, and Kat flushed again.


	4. The Morning After

Roxanne rose early Saturday morning, gulped a mug of coffee thick with sugar and cream, and snorked a bowl of cereal in her bedroom without a spoon while she dressed and tied on her new skates. She left the bowl on the floor, even though she rolled past the kitchen on her way out. She imagined Anna smiling and shaking her head later as she scooped it up.

The grass was dewy, but the street in front of the house was dry. The asphalt looked like it had been laid down a month before. In _this_ hood, she imagined, they'd probably rip up the whole road and start over the first time somebody dropped a tire in a dip. It stretched away in either direction, curving gently to follow the unseen beach. Even though there were only about a dozen houses on each side, it was nearly a mile long. And it was all hers.

She switched on her MP3 player, and Ian van Dahl filled her ears and limbs. The heavy high-energy electronic beat was perfect for blading, and she took off up the road, bouncing to the music.

The wind moved through her hair and chilled her face. She wasn't wearing a helmet or pads; falling on skates or anywhere else was a thing of the past. She'd planned to work up a sweat, so she'd dressed light, just a leotard, and added a tiny skirt in case Mr. Lynch poked his head out the door to watch her. She knew how silly that was, but he'd already made a remark or two about booty display, and she felt strangely reluctant to risk a disapproving look from him. She switched off skating backwards and forwards, warming up, until she reached the outside gate.

She was just in time for the guards' shift change. Brent, the older guy who reminded her a little of Mr. Lynch, was just rolling out the gate, and Ricardo, the good-looking Mexican guy, was rolling in. Anna had told her his last name was McCall, thoroughly weird. They all traded waves, and then she turned back for her real workout.

She worked her way down to the other end of the street, performing field moves and other fancy footwork. By the time she reached the gate at the far end of the road, she was doing simple jumps and spins.

She paused with one hand on the gate and let her breathing ease. She felt a smile touching her lips. Even though it had been a long time since she'd last bladed, she hadn't fluffed once, and she was quite pleased with herself. And, besides, just getting out and moving felt unbelievably good.

She glanced up to see a big butt-ugly guy in a windbreaker looking her over from a doorway on the other side of the gate, maybe fifty yards away. She remembered Mr. Lynch warning her that the people who lived on the other side didn't like strangers nearby. She pulled her hand off the gate like it was hot. But the man gave her a smile, and a wave that might have been a greeting or a warning. She smiled back and turned away.

Now she felt ready for the tough stuff. She headed back towards the house, building up speed, and performed a series of jumps, spins, and spirals. Without Gen, some of her moves would be impossible on rollerblades instead of ice skates, but she doubted there was anyone living on the street who'd know. She hydrobladed for fifty yards to the front of their house, then rose for a camel spin, which she morphed into a one-armed Biellmann, holding it for ten turns before she stopped, blowing hard and feeling loose as cotton candy.

Slow, heavy clapping brought a smile to her face before she realized it was coming from the wrong side of the street. Her good mood frayed at the sight of the man in the doorway, the Middle Eastern-looking guy Kat and Anna had warned her about, but she kept the smile on anyway. "Thanks."

"You should be in the Olympics. You're very good." He was looking her over, and suddenly her wardrobe choices didn't seem so sensible. The damp fabric stuck to her like papier-mâché, detailing her abs and bra; she was very glad she'd worn the skirt. "You live around here, I take it."

"Right across the street."

"Really." He stepped off the low stoop and walked through the grass towards her, smiling. She thought about bolting for her front door, but it didn't seem the proper way to deal with a neighbor, even one who smelled so strongly like trouble. _Mr. Lynch. Kat. Anna. Somebody, poke your head out the door._

The security cruiser rolled up and eased to a stop at the curb, between her and the neighbor. "Good show, Rox. Morning, Mr. Rafiq. You're up early. Everything okay?"

The man's smile vanished. "Yes. Fine."

Rick looked through the car window at her. "Bet Anne's got breakfast ready. After a workout like that, you must be starving."

"You bet. Thanks, Rick," she said, with a little extra emphasis, and headed for the door.

Anna was working in the kitchen, as expected, and turned to her with a smile as she entered. The cool blue eyes were clear and penetrating. "So, _do_ you want another breakfast?"

"Just coffee." She stopped. "You _heard_?"

Their strange little housekeeper nodded. "Microphone at the mailbox. Right now, Rick is oh-so-respectfully describing the _horrific_ consequences Mr. Rafiq might incur, just from letting the wrong people see you talking together. He's mentioned your age, and Mrs. Sylvestri right next door, and how a little gossip would be all his ex-wife would need to haul him back into court to renegotiate his settlement. Now he's reminding him who _else_ lives in the house across the street. Even though Mr. Lynch is polite and reclusive, he's acquired a certain reputation in the neighborhood. I suppose his scars have something to do with it. That and the occasional visits he pays to the _Mafiosi_ down the street." The mug was pressed into her hand, warm and fragrant, and she sipped it standing up while Anna wiped the counter. "Still, Mr. Rafiq is a creature of habit, and you're a serious temptation. I estimate a sixty-five percent probability, plus or minus seven, he'll approach you again the next time he sees you alone." She glanced out the kitchen window, and her rag paused. "The hummingbird is back. Isn't he beautiful? He's feeling lazy today. Wing beats are down to forty-two per second."

She stood next to Anna and watched the bright little creature hovering over a flower on the other side of the pool, its wings an invisible blur. "I'm never gonna get used to the way you sound like Anne of Green Gables one minute, and the Terminator the next."

"Me neither. I'm aware of the dichotomy, but I doubt I'll ever fully integrate. Some machine experiences don't translate well into bio terms, and vice versa." The rag resumed. "Actually, some don't translate at all."

-0-

Melanie woke to a knock on the bedroom door. She'd gotten in plenty early for a Friday night, but she'd been too wound from the concert and, frankly, Bobby's company to sleep right away, and it seemed she'd only closed her eyes. "Melanie?" Mom's voice through the wooden panel. "You have company." Instead of moving away, her mother opened the door and stepped in. "Dear, does your brother have a girlfriend now?"

"I wish. Maybe he'd loosen up." She rubbed a wrist across her eyes. "What time is it?"

"Almost nine. What about the one who was here last night? The beautiful redhead?"

"Oh. Kat? I think they're just splitting the atom together in physics class. She's okay."

"I caught them in his room when I came home."

_That_ woke her up. "_No_."

"They were dressed and upright. They said they were using the printer. But you couldn't have got a loaf of bread between them, and what they were talking about had nothing to do with physics. I thought, if I'd poked my head into his bedroom five minutes later, I might have caught them at something."

"Mom, he was really uptight about letting her in his room to use the computer, but they needed it for study. And Kat doesn't seem the aggressive type. I don't think you've got anything to worry about."

"I wasn't exactly worried. I was wondering if I should have stopped for coffee. That boy needs some distraction."

She shuffled into the kitchen to find Alex and Lori waiting at the table. "It's Saturday. What the hell are _you_ doing up at nine AM?"

"Waiting for you." Lori leaned forward. "Dish. What was it like?"

"Jeez, let me get some juice down." As she filled her glass, she said, "Surpassing excellent. Just as promised. He was outgoing, entertaining, and attentive. And a good listener. He didn't so much as try to play with my hair. And he dropped me off before midnight with a smile instead of a kiss."

"Gay," Alex said, pushing out a lower lip.

"Absolutely not." She looked down into her glass. "I've never felt more in the presence of a _male_ in my life. I was so on him, I actually got a little paranoid about it, thinking he might have slipped something in my Diet Coke. But like I said, he never even reached for my hand. _And _he took Kat home with him when he dropped me off. If I want to take another step with him in that direction, I'd really need to figure out their relationship first."

Lori's eyelids drooped. "So, are you gonna see him again?"

She sat at the table. "See, that's something I want to talk to you about." She looked at their expectant faces. "He plays guitar."

-0-

Kneeling in the grass, Anna diligently raked debris out from under the last bit of untended hedge separating the Lynch and Sylvestri properties and deposited it into a large plastic bag. When the side door of the Sylvestri house opened, she put on a smile that disappeared an instant later as one of the neighbor's Corgis pushed its way out, barking furiously.

Mrs. Sylvestri shouted, exasperated, "Rotten! Get your furry carcass back in here! Rotten!"

The dog paid no heed. It rushed to the hedge, burst through, and confronted her, growling and barking, teeth bared and front legs planted, frantically warning his mistress of something strange and dangerous nearby. Anna stood slowly, her head rising above the four-foot hedge for the neighbor to see. "He doesn't like me much, does he?"

"Anne. I didn't see you. I'm so sorry, dear. Rotten! Come! _Come!_" When the dog reluctantly obeyed, the woman slipped a leash on its collar. It continued to watch her suspiciously, its ruff raised and a low growl in its throat. "I just don't understand it. Vicious _loves_ you. And Rotten doesn't act this way around anyone else, I swear. Maybe it's your perfume or something."

"Or something," she agreed. "How does he get along with the new housekeeper?"

"Better than I do. I swear, the girl has to be shown everything, and I've got to keep an eye on her all the time."

Anna brushed dirt off her hands. "Perhaps she'll get better once she settles in."

"If she lasts that long. She's nothing like you, dear. If you change your mind and come to work for me, I'll put Rotten in a cage whenever you're here. I was shocked speechless when he went after your leg that time you came over to cook. It looked like he meant business."

"He didn't even break the skin, Mrs. Sylvestri. No harm."

"Well, maybe a walk on the sand will mellow him out. Do you suppose I'll see those girls of yours running on the beach today?"

She shook her head. "Roxanne got up early and rollerbladed. Sarah's going shopping, I think."

"I understand your concern about them now, dear; they're lovely. You should talk the other one into getting out. I haven't seen her outside at all, except for when she's splashing around in your pool." She shrugged. "At least she's getting some exercise, I suppose."

"She works out in Mr. Lynch's basement, too. He has a bench and free weights down there."

The woman nodded. "Trying to get her weight down, eh?"

"I think she's just trying to develop her strength. I really can't see her dropping much weight. I suppose she'll weigh two hundred pounds for the rest of her life."

Mrs. Sylvestri clicked her tongue. "What a shame. She has such a pretty face."

"Shame?" She heard the side door open; her discriminating software identified the approaching steps.

"Yes. I was kind of a blimp when I was her age. I know what it's…" Her voice trailed away as Caitlin drew near the fence.

Anna smiled. "Caitlin. I don't believe you've met Mrs. Sylvestri."

The redhead looked down from her six-and-a-half-foot height and reached easily over the hedge to offer a hand. "Just traded waves from inside the pool. How do you do?"

"Hello," the woman said faintly as she shook hands, craning her neck up to meet the girl's eyes. The dog yapped excitedly and tried to reach her, wagging its brushy tail.

"Anna, is there any problem with me borrowing the hatchback for an hour or so? I'd like to pick up a couple of books at the library."

"No, hon, so long as you're back in time for Bobby to drive to his audition. I'd love to see him play guitar in a band, wouldn't you?"

The girl nodded. "I'm sure he's good enough. I just hope they pass him on his talent. The lead guitarist is the girl he went out with last night." She produced a key fob and pressed it; the middle garage door rose to reveal a modest hatchback sedan, rather out of place in the posh La Jolla neighborhood.

"Well, if they take him on because he's pretty, they'll recognize his talent before long, I'm sure."

"Better scoot then. Nice meeting you, Mrs. Sylvestri."

The dog resumed its growling. Mrs. Sylvestri shook its leash to quiet it, but after a moment it began again.

They watched her walk back into the garage, squeeze into the little car, and roll down the drive. "'Big girl'," Mrs. Sylvestri quoted. "'Two hundred pounds. Horribly self-conscious. Constantly teased by boys.'"

Anna nodded. "Yes. See what I mean? What a trial it must be to look like that at her age."

"I thought she was fat, not… built to twelve-tenths scale."

She raised her eyebrows. "Oh. Did I say something to give you that impression?"

"No, not exactly…" The woman shrugged. "It seemed a natural assumption."

"Ah." Anna tied off the bag of yard waste and pretended to be having difficulty heaving it into her wheelbarrow. "It seems I get set on my ear a great many times when I make assumptions."

"John should hire a gardener. He's going to wear you out, having you do all the heavy labor around that house."

"I don't mind. I'm stronger than I look. Really."

Sarah came out the side door. "Did Caitlin leave yet?"

"Just a minute ago," Anna replied. "She'll be back in an hour or so."

Rotten sat, suddenly silent, and stared at the dark-haired girl, head cocked, fascinated.

"I wanted to get a ride from her."

"I could drive you, if you like."

Sarah walked past the two at the hedge. "No, thanks. Wouldn't want you to risk burning your cookies, or whatever."

The dog rolled over on its back, pawing the air. Sarah bent to pet it, and it wriggled in ecstacy. The dark-haired girl stood. "Dogs are very perceptive, aren't they? But not very bright. Toss this one a few table scraps, and he'll probably fawn all over you." She strode down the driveway and turned towards the gate.

Glenda Sylvestri turned to the little housekeeper. "Bet you'll be glad when _she's_ gone back to school."

"Oh, no. I love having all of them around. And it doesn't look like they're going back to that other school. I think Mr. Lynch arranged for them all to finish their classes right here, at MacArthur. Some sort of exchange program; I don't know the details. But I'm glad Bobby and his father will have a chance to spend more time together."

-0-

Sarah, hiking down the sidewalk, had just cleared the Sylvestri property when the community security patrol rolled up behind her. She glanced back and stiffened. Looking at her through the open window was the same guard who had delivered her to the house, ten days before. "Miss Sarah. Would you like a lift?"

"It's half a mile to the gate, and another block to the bus stop. I'd _much_ rather walk."

"Miss, Let me take you to the gate. I really need to talk to you for about a minute." He added quietly, "I swear, I'll keep both hands on the wheel."

She considered. "Does the passenger door open from inside?"

He colored slightly. "The front one does."

She rounded the car and got in. He rolled the car forward. "I wanted to apologize."

"You did that already."

He shook his head without taking his eyes off the empty road in front of the car. "No. I apologized for inconveniencing you while I was doing my job. Now I need to apologize for…" He took a deep breath. "I've never done anything like that in my life. I don't know what came over me. I won't try to explain it away. But I'm very sorry, and it won't happen again. I'm here to protect you, not…" He huffed. "Are you even eighteen?"

"I'll be seventeen in two weeks."

"Jesus Christ." He shook his head. "If you're not in a forgiving mood, one word to my supervisor and I'll be gone. Your choice."

"Actually," she said thoughtfully, "I don't think I'd have to talk to your supervisor. I could just tell Mr. Lynch."

He grew still as a statue; his face became a mask. "I suppose you're right." The car drew up to the gate and stopped.

She opened the door. "But I won't, this time. Be as good as your word, and it never happened." She twitched an eyebrow. "Except the little housekeeper knows. She might look at you differently now. Ripples in a pond, Rico McCall." She shut the door and passed out to the street.


	5. Revelations

"Okay, Bobby. Just pick something you like, and play it. Right now, we just want to get a feel for your style, how you roll."

He looked around the garage at the band's practice room, and the instruments all set up and waiting. "Are you talking about hiring me to play intermissions?"

"What?" Lori's forehead wrinkled.

"I mean, if you want to see how we'll play together, why don't we just jam? Show _me_ what you do, and I'll try to round you out. Your band, after all."

The three girls traded a look. _Too good to be true._

An hour later, Melanie called a break. Alex headed for the bathroom. Lori flapped the top of her shirt to cool off. "What bands have you played in before?"

"None. Always played solo till now."

"Oh? All private instruction, no classes?"

"Lori, I'm self-taught."

"Get _outta_ here. I thought you were a music major, like Amy Lee over here."

He fiddled with a string. "Engineering and physics. Don't hold it against me."

"A session like that leaves me ready to forgive you anything. Mel, do we really have to audition anybody else?"

"Alex has to weigh in yet. She's the one who wanted a girl. Besides," she said, meeting Bobby's eye, "we haven't heard you sing yet."

He smiled, switched from bass to acoustic guitar, and launched into _It's Been Awhile_, a wide-ranging emo ballad by Staind, about a troubled guy talking to his ex-girlfriend about his struggle to put his life together. Lori's eyes were misty and very un-Goth by the time he finished. "Jeez. You got _pipes_. You put a lot of feeling into that, Bobby L. But I can't picture you as a loser boyfriend. Were you ever?"

"No," he said, eyes on the neck of his guitar. "But I've got angst down pretty good."

Alex came back into the garage. Lori took one look at her and said, "What happened?"

Alex glanced at Mel with round eyes. "Your brother asked me to a movie."

"Oh. My. God. What did you say?"

"I think I said yes, after I found my voice. Don't ask me why. What is going _on_ around here?"

"Alex. What about-" She tilted her head towards Bobby.

"Oh. Yeah. Get him a copy of our playlist. We ought to let him add a couple of his faves, too, so he feels like he's in the band." She bundled up her sticks. "Practice tomorrow noon, right? Think I'd better head home. He wants to meet me at Sardini's for dinner first. Not much time to get ready."

"Alex, it's two o'clock."

"Like I said."

-0-

Eddie loved the smell of comic shops. There was just something about the combination of fresh newsprint, fusty cardboard and incense that made him feel like he was on a treasure hunt every time he walked into one. This one even had music, some indie band Bobby would probably recognize. The guy behind the counter, talking to a customer, seemed to know his stuff, which was good and bad at the same time: the shop would likely have some very nice issues, but there wouldn't be any bargains here.

A lot of comic emporia were cluttered and disorganized as a Chinese pawnshop, but this one was laid out neatly, another sign that he was in a business establishment, rather than somebody's attempt to support his comics jones by dealing as well. The current issues were arranged on the stands in alphabetical order, and the back issues sub-grouped by studio. Rare issues were mounted in plastic high on the walls behind the back-issue stacks, out of reach; signs on the walls said, "ASK FOR HELP EXAMINING THESE ITEMS". All in all, it was a good place to browse, or to pick up something hard-to-find if you didn't mind paying for it. He'd have to find other sources, though, to build a satisfactory collection.

He was resigned to starting over. He hadn't seen his collection in nine months, and possibly never would again. Thinking about that made him think of his mom and dad, and he felt a familiar stab. It seemed now that he'd shamelessly taken them for granted. He wondered what they thought of him now; whether they believed he was still in school, forgetting about them, or whether IO had told them some story about him that had convinced them he was dead or forever out of reach some other way. He shook off the dark thoughts and picked through the new issues, looking for any interesting titles that had come out since he'd gone to the Academy.

Someone bumped into him. "Sorry." A girl's voice. He gave her a glance, and then another, and smiled. "No prob." Decent enough, but no comparison to the chicks he shared a roof with, even Anna. Still, very nice. Chicks were a fairly rare sight in comic shops where he came from, but, looking around, he saw that almost a quarter of the people going through the stacks were girls. Two aisles away, the one who'd bumped into him glanced up and gave him a smile. His mood lightened. Maybe there were some finds to be had here after all.

-0-

Bobby was sitting on the couch after dinner, watching _Cool Hand Luke_. He'd just gotten to the part where the Warden says, "What we got here… is a failure to communicate," just before the whole world falls on the poor runaway.

Sarah dropped into the cushion beside him and leaned up against him. The waist-length raven hair fell over his shoulder, feeling like silk and smelling like summer rain. He stopped breathing. She smiled at the screen. "So. How was your date?"

"Great," he said, as casually as he could manage while sharing body heat with the girl of his dreams. "Music major, non-classical. She's in the band, matter of fact. Lots of fun."

Mischief touched the corner of her mouth. "You didn't feel uncomfortable, spending the evening with an older woman?"

_You're three months older than I am. If only I could convince myself you're feeling jealous. _"She's not _that_ much older." He shifted carefully, minimizing contact without actually withdrawing. "How was yours?"

She wrinkled her nose. "Toni's a little butch for my taste. And possessive. She seemed to think being the first girl to ask me out gave her dibs on me. When I told her I wanted to date around, she didn't take it well."

"Sorry," He said, not feeling sorry at all.

"It's okay. At least all the boys in school know about me now, so they've stopped pestering, mostly. They just _buzz_ around poor Caitlin, and Eddie's all that keeps them off Roxanne." She shifted, pressing closer again, and the movement of her body against his drew his stomach up tight. "How did your audition go?"

"They liked me. I'm in. First practice tomorrow."

"Of course they liked you." She looked at him through her lashes. "Are you going to see her again?"

"Probably." _In practice, in class, and at lunch. There's only one girl in the world for me, and she's right here. And she's a lipstick lesbian who treats me like a brother half the time, and a nuisance the other half._

They watched the show in silence. He stretched his willpower to its utmost, and managed to keep his eyes on the screen and control his breathing, giving her no clue that anything was wrong. On the screen, Luke had just been given the beating of his life, and the guards were bringing him to the point of death with endless work and no sleep. Sarah said, "They're really putting him through it, aren't they? Watching stuff like this, it's no wonder you're always so melancholy."

_Only around you, Sarah. Only around you._

-0-

Anna was cleaning the kitchen after breakfast when the mailbox mike picked up some new activity: a diesel engine, of the sort used in small passenger vehicles. She went to one of the few windows facing the street and parted the curtains. She saw a large dual-wheeled pickup truck pulling a low trailer loaded with mowers and other grass-cutting equipment: the neighborhood lawn care service, arriving on an unprecedented Sunday morning to mow. She recognized only one of the two workers, a tall, muscular black youth with a bandanna covering his head.

She went out to meet them. On the steps leading down into the garage, she stopped to disarrange her clothing, sliding her bra strap down on her shoulder and pulling her shirt out. She paused until the garage door had swung halfway up, knowing the crew outside would be watching the opening. She walked through the garage, slipping her bra strap back on her shoulder and tucking in her shirt. She waved as she came out into the sunlight, and walked down the driveway to the truck and trailer parked on the street, and the two shirtless young men dropping the trailer's gate to get at the lawn equipment riding on it. "Dewayne. Wait a second, please."

The black youth rested a hand on the trailer's rail and smiled. "Sup, Anne?" His voice was unusually deep. "Meet our new guy, Larry."

The second crewman was a slender white boy with sandy hair and a tee-shirt tan; he reached a hand towards her. She took it, smiling. "Hello, Larry." _Names are important to people. _"Is that short for something?"

He smiled back, but not just at her face. "Lawrence, yeah. Hi."

"Lawrence," she said, broadening the 'a' and bringing the 'r' from the back of her throat, almost rolling it. "Do you mind if I call you Lawrence? It feels better in my mouth ."

A flicker of eye contact passed between the two men. _Another mistake. Will I ever talk to people for five minutes and be sure I've got everything right?_ "Uh, yeah. Sure."

She turned back to Dewayne. "Is there some way you can come back later? Mr. Lynch just got in, and he's been driving all night."

Dewayne's smile disappeared. "Only six yards to do on this street today, then we have to head clear across town. We can do yours last before we go, but it won't be more than an hour or two before we're here."

She let her face fall. "Could you come back after that? Or tomorrow? I'd make it worth your time."

He shook his head. "No can do. We're mowing till dark as it is. Storms in the forecast tomorrow. That's why we're here on Sunday." He glanced back into the trailer. "Tell you what. We got a little electric mower we use for trim. Nice and quiet, prob'ly do a third of the yard before it quits. I'll leave him here with that, and go work on the other yards. When I come back with the rider, I'll start from the street. By the time we meet, we shouldn't be much closer to the house than if we was doing the next yard."

She clasped her hands together and beamed up at him. "Wonderful. Thank you."

"Still gonna put us behind. And I can't make it up on the road. A speeding ticket would cost me a day's pay."

"I said I'd make it worth your time. I will."

"Kay then." He lifted an eyebrow and looked down at her. "What time do I pick you up?"

"Stop it." She slapped his bare chest, not hard enough to leave a mark. "How many times must I tell you 'no'?"

"You can stop any time you want. You prejudiced, Anne?" His smile robbed the words of any sting.

"Yes. I'm _veyie_ prejudiced against dating handsome sharming men. I don't want to become an entyie in your leetle bleck buhk, Dewayne Zhonson."

He grinned. "I don't have a 'leetle bleck buhk'."

She put three fingers to her lips and smiled behind them, as if embarrassed by her lapse. "Then you have some other way of keeping track. And keeping score. Besides, I can't take time off right now. The house is full of guests." She dug into her pocket and produced a small packet of folded bills. "Will you settle for this?"

He didn't reach for the money. "If it was just me, I wouldn't take it. But the kid don't know you. And the dispatcher'll want a cut."

She pushed the money towards him. "Don't undervalue yourself. Mr. Lynch says the sincerest form of flattery is money, not imitation." She took his hand, turned the palm up, dropped the bills into it, and closed his fingers over them. Then she turned back towards the house. "Au 'voir."

Behind her, in confidential tones, she heard Larry's voice. "Dang."

"Yeah." The gate clanked as Dewayne lowered it carefully to the pavement.

"'It feels better in my mouth'. _Tell_ me you're gettin some of that."

"Never. She's eye candy, even in those funky clothes. And fun to talk to. Only white girl ever got my name right. And if you get her flustered enough so's that accent slips out, it's enough to drive a man crazy. I love dragging her." More clanking, as he moved equipment around on the trailer. "But if she ever says yes, I'll find a way to back out."

"_Why?_"

"You didn't see her putting herself back together on the way out? I talk to the security guys, and they're sure she's shakin it with the man of the house."

She entered the garage and sent the door down, but continued to listen via the mailbox mike as she headed for the kitchen.

"And that's a problem why?"

"Cuz I don't want some Mafia hitman thinking I'm playin his squeeze, college boy."

"Get _outta_ here. Word?"

"Word. Not the only hood on this street, either. We got a contract to do the whole subdivision, but we don't mow the last three houses, ever. They got their own gate across the road, and whenever I'm cutting one of the lawns next door, some mook comes out and eyeballs me the whole time. Creeps you out. Him, he's a lot more social-like. I run into him on the way in or out sometimes, and we talk, nice as nice. But he's got an eye missing and some nasty-ass scars on his face, and I'll bet anything the guy who did it to him is dead. He looks _just_ like the kinda guy rich folks would hire to kill somebody or blow something up. No way am I gonna risk gettin on his list." She heard the tailgate creak as it rose, then the snap of its locks. "She'll probably bring you out a lemonade or something later. Be polite. And don't take a _step_ past the garage door. His 'guests' are probably sittin around the kitchen table cleanin their guns."

-0-

Alex glanced at Mel and Lori. "You want to add _Jimi Hendrix_ to our playlist?"

Bobby cocked his head. "Not exactly. I want to do V_oodoo Child._"

They were three hours into their first practice together. As in the audition/jam session, Bobby had meshed with the three of them as if he'd been a studio musician in a former life. He'd picked up a dozen songs from their playlist as if he'd already known them, even the one that was Melanie's. The girls had traded smiles time and time again, silently congratulating each other on their lucky find. And then Alex had asked him about adding a few songs of his own.

Melanie was sure the others were thinking the same way she was. She wasn't prepared to sit on her hands onstage while the band's only guy threw himself a bass party. She felt a pang of disappointment. _Didn't take him long to go rockstar on us._

"Always wanted to hear a girl do those lyrics," he went on. He picked out the song's intro. "Like this. I start out the chicken-pecking part just like you always hear it, to let the audience think they know what's coming. Then, just as they're expecting the bass hammer to drop, I fade back, and you three take it away. Gotta hit it hard, on keyboard and drums both. Lead vocals to Lori; a girl does this, she's gotta be a wildcat." He grinned at them. "I can hear it in my head already. We do this right, it'll bring the house down."

They spent half an hour working on arrangements, then gave it a try. Melanie said, "What do you think, Bobby?"

He was frowning. "Too polite." He unslung the bass and stepped to the keyboard. She watched Lori's eyes widen and her lips part slightly as he leaned over it, placing their faces a foot apart. "Lori, you've got a sweet voice. I love what you do with _Take Your Breath Away_. But you don't want to croon this, or sound like you're reciting Jimi's vocals. You want to _steal_ this song and make it your own. The only way this can work is if you show everybody a girl can out-Jimi Jimi, and you're the girl." He smiled down at her. "Come on, Goth princess. You're not afraid to break out of the box, are you?"

Lori swallowed, eyes locked on him. "Course not."

"So _belt_ the vocals out, just like when you back up Mel on _Do You Wanna Touch_." He took up position and slung his guitar. "Once more. Alex, come in hard just before the end of the intro, to sort of push me out of the way and give Lori and Mel something to work with."

The second attempt brought dust down out of the rafters, and a small crowd formed at the end of the driveway, watching through the open garage door. When the last chord crashed against the walls, the four of them froze in place, looking at one another. After five seconds, Alex put a tongue to her upper lip. "Was it good for you, too?"

The band broke into laughter. "Omigod," Lori said to Melanie; she was perspiring like she'd sprinted fifty yards. The half dozen onlookers applauded and hooted.

"What do you think?" Bobby was glowing. "Do we add it to our playlist?"

"I think we add it to our _audition_ set." Melanie grinned at him, and shook her head to clear the fumes. She was vibrating like a guitar string; still high off the righteousness of the song, she supposed.

He glanced at his watch. "Gotta go." He slipped his guitars into their cases.

"Bobby," Melanie said, "we all just leave our stuff here."

He gave her a crooked grin. "Inviting me to move in?" he bent to replace his bass on its stand, so he missed her flush. He picked up the case holding his acoustic. "I could leave the bass. But I sleep with this one." He passed through the door, headed for his car.

"Lucky guitar," Lori said, not quite under her breath. "Christ. When he looked at me like that, I couldn't have said no to him. Not to _anything_." She looked at Melanie. "You don't make up your mind about him soon, I'm making a play."

"Uh, guys?" Alex laid her sticks on a drumhead and leaned forward. "Something I need to tell you. I went out with Joel last night-"

"Hold the presses," Melanie said. "You're not going to give me TMI on my brother, are you?"

"_No_. You know Kat's a baby genius, right? Joel told me she's not eighteen yet."

"You're _kidding_. She looks…"

"Yeah."

"What is she doing in _college_? Third year work, no less."

Alex shrugged. "Special program, that's all she'll say. But can you imagine a high school that could teach her anything?" The trouble line between her eyes deepened. "Thing is, Kat told me she's a year older than Bobby."

They digested that for a moment, then Lori blew out. "Ugh. I'm a cooger at twenty."

"At least you didn't _date_ him. I feel like…"

"For what it's worth, you guys, I feel it too. He walks by while I'm sitting down, and my knees separate a little all by themselves. That crack about a harem doesn't seem nearly so cute now." Alex looked out the open garage door at him, as he eased his case into the little hatchback. Two of their audience were teenage girls, and they were both leaning over the back of the car, watching him. "I never believed in animal magnetism till now, but it's either that or we _all_ need boyfriends _real_ bad. I'd swear he's not doing it on purpose. I don't think he even knows. But he's got a big head start in the player game. My brother's his age, and his voice still squeaks sometimes when he talks to girls. I think, if we want to keep him, we all better be very, very careful with him."

10


	6. Low Profile

Monday March 22 2004  
La Jolla

Anna smiled as John Lynch passed through the kitchen, dressed in gray sweatpants and a sleeveless shirt. "Have a good run, sir. Will you be wanting breakfast after?"

"Probably. I'll decide what when I get back." He stepped out onto the pool deck, and paused to admire the view and smell the early-morning breeze. Then he descended the sandstone steps set into the slope of the low hill.

Technically, the beach at the foot of the hill was public land, but since the only public access was by water, strangers were seldom seen here. He stood on the narrow strip of sand between the rolling waves and the posh houses' back yards, considering a direction to start. Northward, the beach terminated at a rocky spur a mile and a half distant. Half a mile to the south, it effectively ended at a thoroughly illegal chain-link fence, six feet tall, which ran the width of the beach and into the water until it disappeared under the waves. He was the only person on the beach between.

He told himself that a four-mile run in the sand was at least as good as a five-miler on pavement or packed dirt; he hoped it was true. His increasingly demanding schedule was squeezing free time for exercise right out of his day, and John Lynch was convinced that regular exercise kept a man's mind sharp as well as guarding his health. Anyone who knew him well enough to know his real age would conclude he was doing _something_ right.

He turned north, beginning with the longer leg of the run. Another reason he ran regularly was that it was an excellent opportunity to think. He'd been needing that a lot lately, too.

He reviewed his plans and their progress, as he pounded towards the spur and shore birds scattered at his approach. He'd got his kids – _his kids,_ he repeated to himself wryly – settled into as normal a life as he could arrange. Their IDs would bear the closest scrutiny, and the accompanying public records were perfect forgeries. A little gadget he'd liberated from the Nevada warehouse had enabled him to provide each of them with a cellphone immune to IO's sophisticated surveillance systems. Even their school records were proof against electronic search. They were as safe as he could make them without locking them down.

He wished he could have given the same advantages to the others. He'd intended to, but their sudden early incarceration had forced him to move fast, and not fully prepared. He'd done what he could, but sending them out on their own with a stolen car, a shady contact, and a pocketful of cash had felt too much like teaching them to swim by pushing them off the end of the dock.

He gave a mental sigh as he turned at the rock wall, his breathing only slightly heavier. He still had a few people at the Shop he could trust, who'd tell him how close IO was on his trail, and whether it had caught any of the others. He decided to keep such information to himself; he couldn't see any profit from telling the kids, if any of their friends fell back into Ivana's hands.

As he approached the house, he saw Eddie shadowboxing on the pool deck. The boy paused to grin and wave, and Lynch felt the corners of his mouth turn up as he raised a hand in return. A head capped with darkly shining red hair bobbed above the pool's rim, and a long, slender arm rose from the water to wave as well. His chest tightened as he lifted his hand again and passed by.

A man stood on the other side of the chain link, a hand in the pocket of his windbreaker – not unusual. But he opened the gate and beckoned as Lynch approached, which was. "Mr. Ricci would like to see you."

He passed through and walked a short distance to the elaborately terraced back yard of the Ricci compound's beach house. He climbed the steps to the topmost deck, where Eddie Rich sat at a small round table set with a light breakfast for two. "Sit down, Jack. You make me tired just watching you. Someday you're gonna have a heart attack right on the beach. The tide'll wash your body out to sea, and everybody'll think I did it. Breakfast?"

"Morning, Eduardo. Just water, thanks. My housekeeper will pout if I don't let her feed me when I get back." He sat.

Ricci gave him a lopsided grin. "Gotta keep the ladies happy. Specially that little cutie pie." He sipped his coffee. "You got houseguests. Bunch a kids. Seems out of character."

"One of them's mine. The others are school buddies."

The gangster buttered a roll. "So, when they going back?"

"They're not. I talked them into transferring. They'll be staying with me, probably until they graduate." He kept his face and body relaxed while he took the mental step back that gave him access to his powers.

"Uh huh." He took a bite of his pastry, chewed, and swallowed, while Lynch waited. "You got a lot of heart. Russo says the girls are sweet. Wants to take down the fence, just so he can watch em jog past the house." He looked out over the water. "But I doubt you're keeping them around because they're eye candy. Great view, isn't it? I love it here. Nice and quiet. You're a good neighbor, Jack. You keep to yourself, mind your own business. You like things quiet too. Half the people on this street think you work for me."

"You couldn't afford me."

He smiled again. "And that tells me who you _do_ work for, don't it?"

"I'm retired, Eduardo."

"You're the busiest retiree I ever seen."

"I get absorbed in my hobbies. Did you have something on your mind?"

Eddie nodded. "Like I said, you're a good neighbor. I'd hate to see trouble come your way. And I'd hate to see my quiet little neighborhood overrun with noisy strangers."

"The kids won't be any trouble. I didn't tell them more than they need to know, but they know the rules."

"I'm not worried about your kids, Jack. I know they'll behave." The man turned to look Jack in the eye for the first time. "Someone very well-connected is looking for a schoolful of runaway kids. They're doing it quiet and not giving up information, but they're turning over every rock, and throwing out money in handfuls. They won't learn anything from _my_ people, but they're asking _everybody_. I got friends in Chicago, New York, Vegas, Atlantic City, Miami. People who know people, and good at finding things that cops can't."

Lynch nodded. "Information services" were a growing criminal enterprise. They subverted computer networks, ran strings of paid informers, planted moles, and practiced high-level industrial espionage; miniature CIAs-for-hire.

"They're all getting little visits, and being put on retainer. And money's not the only persuader these clients are using. They know shit they can't possibly know. Fuck, seems like the only thing they _don't_ know is where to find these kids." He turned back to the ocean and drained his cup. "Be real careful who you tell about your little houseguests, Jack. Keep a low profile. It's not gonna be easy keeping them out of the searchlights. You might wanna start thinking about having someplace to run to, just in case."

MacArthur University

Outside the lab, Joel and Kat high-fived, grinning. "'Exemplary,'" she quoted. "'Rigorous technique.""

"'Lab-quality research,'" Joel added. "Think we impressed him?"

"I think if the rest of the lab goes like this, we'll be tapped as teaching assistants by the end of the week."

"God forbid. Who has the time?"

She smiled at him. "God forbid."

-0-

Roxanne took her cheek off her fist, sat up straight in her chair, and tried to look more interested in the conversation at her regular lunch table. None of her "family" was here: her lunchtime was different from Kat's and Bobby's, and Sarah spent her breaks elsewhere, and God knew where Grunge was today. She'd been provisionally accepted by some of the girls here, but Roxy missed the easy acceptance and bright lunchtime conversations at Darwin.

There was a great deal about Darwin she didn't miss, of course; a great deal she didn't even want to _remember_ about it. But if she spent one more lunchtime listening to Rachel piss and moan about her loser boyfriend Adam, she couldn't be held responsible for her actions. _Why would a girl give her heart to a guy she's afraid to leave alone with her purse?_

_Or her sister,_ a second, malicious inner voice added.

She suddenly realized someone had spoken her name. "What? Sorry. Thinking."

"I said, _you _must have some war stories to tell. Keeping a leash on Eddie must be a challenge." The speaker was Rachel's best friend Luanne, a girl Roxy would chat with but wouldn't turn her back on.

Roxy twisted the corner of her mouth in a sort of smile. "Gotta have a little trust, Lu. If you love something, set it free." _And if it comes back with a hickey on its neck, crush its testicles._

"Uh huh. I'm thinking Brittany'd appreciate that attitude."

Her attention came into focus. "Brittany?"

"Yeah. They're in my Math. She's been asking him for help since their first class together." The girl's eyebrows rose. "Funny. She's four-oh, but when Eddie's around she can't count to twelve with her shoes on." She added meaningfully, "We all have the same lunch, Mondays and Thursdays." She made a show of looking around. "Don't see her, though. You can't miss her. Five-six, bleach blonde, short skirt."

Roxy stood up with her tray, although there were ten minutes left before class. "Gonna go freshen up." While she sorted her dishes and placed her tray on the dishwashing conveyor, she reminded herself of the last time she'd listened to gossip about Grunge's fidelity. _There are girls like Luanne everywhere. Don't pay any attention._ She calmed.

But she was sure she'd drop a few casual questions about where he was at lunch, just the same.

-0-

Sarah spent her lunch on the grass behind the Science Building. Her next class was Meteorological Science, so she was practically waiting outside the door of her classroom. That was good; she was in no mood to keep close track of time.

She sat with her back against an evergreen, letting the pine smell and the rough feel of the bark bring back childhood memories good and bad. She drew her knees up to her chin, for once unmindful of the furtive stares of boys and the occasional girl, and wound her arms around them. Her eyes misted as she said softly, "Happy birthday, Sister."

La Jolla

"Rick." Standing at the open side door, Anna looked up with wide eyes. "What's wrong?"

The big guard's hands shifted nervously on his belt. "I, uh, wanted to talk to you."

"Well, come in. The kids are at school, and Mr. Lynch is gone; it's just you and me, nice and private."

"Sure you want to let me in?" He moved his head. "I mean, alone in the house and all."

"_Rick._ If I can't trust _you_ in the house, who's going to keep us safe?" She stepped back. "Let me get you a cup of coffee."

He stepped in, but not far enough for her to shut the door. "Thanks. I can't stay, though." He shifted his feet.

"_Get your butt in here __now__._" When the flustered man stepped in, she shut the door, placed a hand in the small of his back, and pushed him gently but firmly through the living room towards the kitchen. "I should be afraid of you? The very _idea_." She pointed to a chair at the table. When he was settled into it with his hand wrapped around a mugful of Jamaica Blue Mountain, she sat across from him and stretched her hand across the table, palm up. She wiggled her fingers until he placed his free hand in hers, blushing.

She gripped it, firmly but not painfully so. "Don't start doubting yourself. It's hazardous in your line of work."

He shrugged helplessly. "I'm ashamed of myself. And a little scared. Of what happened, I mean."

"Don't be. I can't help thinking you're just as much a victim here as anyone."

His brows gathered. "She didn't come on to me, Anne. She's blameless."

"And so are you. She doesn't mean to, but she has a very erotic effect on men sometimes." She added, "They all do." She tugged his hand. "They're all beautiful. But there are a lot of pretty girls in So Cal, and I'm sure they never tried your restraint like she did. There's something special about her, about them." She held his eyes. "Tell me about that first meeting, Rick. Every detail. What you both said and did, how she acted, the way you felt. Don't be embarrassed. Not if you truly want to atone, if you want to protect them."

An hour later, she sent him out the door with a smile. Now alone in the house, she entered the basement to Mr. Lynch's study and sat at his computer, a much more sophisticated machine than the one in the kitchen. She typed the series of commands he'd taught her the day before, and the heavy _phi_ used by IO as a logo filled the screen.

Her access of International Operations' database was fractional, limited to the resources of the Operations Directorate, Lynch's old satrapy. But it exchanged information with the Research and Planning Directorates frequently, and everywhere such a connection was open, she was able to piggyback and gather information.

Available data on the runaways was still scant, but the organization had closely observed the Gen Twelves in its service, and not all the Thirteens had left with Mr. Lynch. She searched through several hundred pages of data before she found a file of reports containing the first references to what she suspected she'd find.

_Incidence of Incubus Effect among Generation 12 Test Subjects_

_Variations in Incubus Effect: Effect of Emotional State on Range & Efficacy_

_Possible Uses of Incubus Effect in Field Operations_

_Development of Incubus/Succubus Effect in Generation 13 Test Subjects: Nicole and Matthew Callahan_

_Recommended Safety Precautions in Proximity of G13 Nicole Callahan_

_Use of Succubus Effect as a Weapon or Interrogation Tool: G13 Nicole Callahan_

_Possible Psychological Aberrations Associated with I/S Effect_

_Indications of Manifestation of I/S Effect among G13s at Holding Facility (Darwin Academy)_

Even though there was no one to see, Anna touched her lips with her fingers as she read, and her eyes widened. "Oh, my."


	7. The Limits of Power

Monday March 22 2004  
La Jolla

An hour after school, Roxanne was lounging in a deck chair beside the pool, sipping at a cold drink while she reviewed her long and unsatisfactory conversation with her boyfriend. Grunge was lying in the chair next to her, deftly evading all her attempts to pin down his whereabouts at lunch and his relationship with the little trollop in his Math class. She gave up; short of a direct question, she wasn't going to get a solid answer from him, and she wouldn't have trusted the answer.

The weather forecast had predicted storms all day, but the weather had started clearing early, and the sun was playing hide-and-seek with the clouds. It was a great day to catch a burn without realizing it, she thought. Absentmindedly, she set the tumbler of ice and lemonade on the table beside her. As she drew back her hand, she felt the glass bump against her fingers on its way to the concrete, and she realized with a shock that she'd mostly missed the table with it. She snatched at it, only to realize it wasn't falling anymore; it sat on nothing, slightly tilted, an inch off the concrete.

She put her hand around it carefully and brought it close, examining it. It seemed perfectly normal. She took a sip, and the liquid behaved normally inside the container. She stared intently at it as she raised it to chin height. Slowly, she released the glass, keeping her fingers curled around it just in case. The sweating tumbler stayed where it was, a foot above her belly. A bead of condensation slid down its side, reached the base, and stopped.

"Kewl. Weird, but kewl." Grunge was staring at the glass too. "What else can you do? Besides cheat a scale?"

She set the tumbler on the table. Moisture gathered in a spreading pool under the glass's base. Next, she looked at the surface of the swimming pool, still as a sheet of glass. She imagined lifting something in the water, and her hands rose, palm-up. A hump rose in the center of the surface, and fell back, sloshing over the sides. She gestured again, feeling like Mickey Mouse in that old Disney movie. It rose again, higher, assumed a spherical shape, and a volume of water the size of a beach ball was floating a foot above the rolling and lowered surface of the pool.

"_Banzaiii!_" Grunge leaped off the chair and sprang at the globe, reaching. His arms wrapped around it and disappeared, then his head and shoulders entered.

And he stopped, floating belly-down above the pool with his head stuck in the globe of water. His arms and legs began to thrash.

She flew to the edge of the pool in a panic. She had no idea how to undo what she'd done, or how to get Grunge out of it. His arms were batting at the ball, but they sank in with hardly a ripple, and came out wet but not splashing. He bent and twisted, but the ball of water stayed firmly seated on his upper body.

Then Grunge and the globe dropped into the water with a huge splash. The boy rose to the surface coughing, and paddled to her. He rested his arms on the rim. "Jeez."

Instead of helping him out, she brought a fist down on his head. "_Idiot._ What were you _doing_?"

"Thought I could pop it."

"You almost got killed. You shouldn't screw around like that. You don't know what you're messing with." She helped him out of the water then, and followed him back to the chair. Then she stared down at her hands. "Grunge, I'm scared."

Tuesday March 23 2004  
MacArthur University

After their second period Lit, Eddie and Bobby hit the lavatory to recycle their morning coffee.

Eddie smiled to himself when Bobby headed straight to the sink to wash up, on the assumption that his rod was presently cleaner than his hands. Even Mr. Hygiene wouldn't lather up beforehand in Anna's spotless house, but it was a regular habit at school and any other public place.

Three of the four urinals were occupied by guys standing between the partitions with their hands in front of them, stoically ignoring one another. The only unused one, of course, was the one on the end, which was set eight inches lower than the other three. Eddie figured the same sort of crazy law that required crip spots in health club parking lots forced college bathrooms to size one pisser for six-year-olds. The instant he stepped up and unzipped, the occupants of the other three urinals zipped up and stepped away, filing out the door without washing up.

Another student stepped up to the urinal next to Eddie, and he heard a snort. "Now I know why they dropped one."

Eddie glanced over. The guy standing next to him was taller than Bobby, maybe six-three, which made him a foot taller than Eddie. The jerk was smiling at the wall.

Eddie wasn't normally self-conscious about his height, but something about the situation rankled. He fantasized about pulling the partition off the wall and swatting the guy with it or just reaching over and breaking his thumb.

_No. Even if I'm not using Gen, I can't risk the attention. There's no telling what might pop up on IO's radar._

He zipped up and stepped away, fuming, just as Bobby finished drying his hands.

When Eddie moved to the sink, Bobby stepped to the urinals. He passed the two unoccupied ones, and the one filled by the smartass, and took up station at the kiddy urinal.

"What's wrong with those two?" The guy said, puzzled.

Poker-faced, Bobby said to the wall, "Thought you said you knew. Not that _I'd_ admit to looking."

"What are you-"

"Dude," Bobby said, as if he were explaining something obvious. "They didn't drop it down for the short guys. They did it for the LD's."

The guy almost looked, and caught himself. He zipped up and left, also without washing up.

Bobby came back to the sink as Eddie was rinsing. As Eddie stepped to the hand dryer, he said, "Love you, man."

La Jolla

Caitlin grunted with effort as she pressed the barbell away from her chest towards the ceiling. Only part of that effort was due to the resistance of the weights. She was fighting her Gen, trying to hold it in check so that the exercise would stress her muscles. The double battle wasn't easy. From where she lay, she could see a huge dent in the ceiling drywall above her from a time her control had slipped at the end of a rep. The bar had leaped from her fingers, smashed into the drywall, and come back down on top of her, weights coming loose to bounce, ringing, off the floor.

_Might get more out of the exercise if I could still get my elbows below the bench._ She glanced sourly at the huge mutant growths on her chest. _I can't believe there are women who pay to go through life like this._ She strained for the last few inches of extension. "Uhhhhh!"

"Sounds like rough sex down here," Sarah said from the stairs as she descended. "Are you all right?"

"Oh, never better," she said through clenched teeth as she brought the bar level with the station rest and dropped it in. She blew out. "Getting a handle on it now, I think."

Sarah stood over her, shaking her head and smiling. "I don't know why you bother. You could lift every weight in the stand with one finger if you wanted. And you certainly don't need to work out for vanity's sake. You look terrific already."

"Opinions vary, but thanks." She sat up and wiped her forehead with her palm. "Should have brought a towel down. Clothes feel glued on."

Sarah carefully studied the wall. "I don't get it. That outfit barely covers more than your swimsuit. What happened to all that prudish modesty?"

"Just can't afford it when I'm pumping iron, I guess. And, well, I'm just less self-conscious. Maintaining proper form taxes my concentration enough without dealing with clothes that hamper my movements."

"I'm surprised Eddie's not down here spotting you."

"He's offered, but Roxy always comes down with him. That sort of hampers _his_ movements." The girls shared a chuckle, then Kat said, "Bobby's offered too, but I'm not really pushing myself that hard yet. Not till I'm sure I've got my Gen firmly in hand."

"Speaking of which."

Caitlin felt a draft on her sweaty forehead and shoulders, but it didn't feel like the refrigerated air from the AC. And she didn't hear the usual whisper from the registers. It caressed her skin, gently drying it. "You?"

Sarah nodded. "Uh huh. I'm thinking about trying to make it rain, and live up to my name. But I think the conditions would have to be just right."

The soft touch of the air on Caitlin's damp skin raised goosebumps, and bumps in a couple of other places that pressed against the damp shirt fabric. Sarah glanced at her, and then quickly away. "I, ah, are you done down here? I'm heading back up."

"No," Kat said quietly. "I've got a few more things to do."

Sarah nodded and headed upstairs quickly, taking the breeze and its caress with her.

-0-

"Don't know, dude." Eddie looked at his right fist, which was smooth and white, threaded with veins of darker color. His left hand rested on the marble fireplace mantel. "What good would this do me in a fight?"

"Are you kidding? You hit somebody with that, he'll go down and stay down."

"That's cuz he'll be _dead_." He let his hand return to normal. "If I ever had to, I can already kill somebody with my bare hands. I don't need brass knucks besides. There's gotta be a better use for my Gen than this."

"Well, what about armor? Touch a chunk of steel, and you're a tank."

Eddie shook his head. "I'm not even sure it would really be steel. If it is, the effect on my skin must… refresh itself instantaneously, or so fast it doesn't hamper my movements. But it's still just a millimeter thick. Doubt it would stop a bullet. How's the flying thing going?"

It was Bobby's turn to shake his head. "Not happening."

"Come on. So it didn't work the first time. Maybe you just need more practice."

"Bro, the parking lot looked like a shuttle launched from it, and we barely got out of there before the firemen showed up. There's not gonna be another practice."

"Dude. Think how _cool _it would be to fly, like the Human Torch."

"I don't care how cool the Human Torch looks in the comic books. I only got a foot in the air, and I almost fell face first into four inches of melted asphalt. You can't heat the air enough to lift you off the ground _and_ keep from frying yourself _and_ maintain your balance _and_ tweak it so you can steer all at the same time. Just too many variables. I can just see myself losing it thirty feet in the air."

Eddie rubbed his chin. "Hm. They say if the avionics computer goes out on an F16, the only control that does the pilot any good is the eject lever, cuz the tiniest mistake sends you spinning out of control and a human pilot can't react fast enough to correct." He gave out a heavy sigh. "Still, it was a beautiful dream. And you looked _boss, _like somebody mounted a jet engine under you pointing up into the sky. And the noise… un-frickin-believable."

"Yeah. It'd make a great clip on YouTube." Bobby's frown deepened. "Hey… you turned your right hand marbly, but you touched the fireplace with your left."

"Oh, yeah. New trick. You like that, watch this." He touched the mantle again. This time, his whole body changed, as well as his clothes. "Cool, huh?" Said the marble statue that looked like Eddie. "It's not just clothes, either. Check this out." He touched a glass candlestick on the mantel, and it changed too. He removed his finger, and the candlestick still looked like marble. Eddie returned to normal, and the candlestick _still_ looked like marble.

Bobby touched it. He couldn't be sure, but he thought it felt like marble instead of glass. He picked it up, and it seemed too heavy. "If you cut it open…"

"It's like that all the way through."

"How do you know?"

"Dude, I just know."

"How long does it stay like this?"

"Depends. I sort of _press_ it when I touch it, but not really. The harder I press it, the longer it stays. I changed a piece of driftwood to aluminum last night, and it stayed that way till morning. On the down side, I did the same thing to a cricket. When it changed back, it was dead."Eddie studied his finger as if he'd never seen it before. "Another reason I'll never need brass knucks, I guess. I can kill somebody with a touch of my finger. You can incinerate somebody with a cross look. Rox can lift a guy fifty feet in the air and drop him, I bet. What Kat can do to a guy doesn't bear thinking about. And Sarah…"

"What?"

"You haven't seen it? Last night those popping noises in the back yard weren't all coming out of the bug zapper, dude. Trust me, you do _not_ want her to poke you in the butt when she's mad. I landed in the pool, and I've still got a red spot the size of a quarter. I'm betting she could crank it up till there'd be nothing left of you but smoke coming out of your boots."

Bobby shrugged. "A ten-year old with a Glock can smoke somebody with a twitch of his finger. What we can do doesn't make us gods, bro."

Friday March 26  
La Jolla

Glancing down the hall on the way to the kitchen, Roxy saw something in the living room that froze her with one foot still in the air as she pressed a hand to the wall. Then she turned and drifted into the living room, awestruck.

Grunge and Caitlin sat on opposite sides of the coffee table, a chessboard between them. Grunge sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the couch, elbows on the table and his chin in his hands, looking smug; Caitlin perched on the edge of the other couch, hunched over the board with her shins bumping the table, frowning in concentration.

Roxanne knew the pieces and how they moved, although she didn't have much interest in the game. But she saw that a lot more of Kat's pieces were off the board than Grunge's, and that couldn't be good.

"Still your move," Grunge said.

"I know." Kat continued to stare at the board.

Roxanne came up behind. "I don't believe what I'm seeing. Grunge, I didn't even know you could play. Are you _winning_?"

"Two to two," he said. "Playing best out of five."

Kat shook her head without taking her eyes off the board. "He's got a devastating opening game. The first ten or fifteen moves are like skipping through a minefield. If I can keep my feet that long, I've got a chance."

"Sweeping girls off their feet," Grunge said. "My specialty."

Roxy leaned deeply over the back of the couch, bringing her lips near Grunge's ear. "Been memorizing plays out of chess books, haven't you?" She watched his ear redden. Then she looked up at her sister, and realized what sort of view her boyfriend was getting, with Kat bent almost double over the board right in front of him and the collar of her shirt hanging loose off her neck. "How come you're not playing in the kitchen?"

Still staring at the board, Kat said, "Eddie set it up in here. He thought we'd be more comfortable."

Roxy reached around and gave Grunge's ear a twist. "I think you should move to the kitchen table."

Kat shook her head, then reached out and moved her queen. "Check."

Grunge rubbed his ear as he looked the board over. He grunted. "You sure?"

"No takebacks. Check."

He took the queen with a knight. "We done here?"

"Not yet." She slid a bishop across the board. "Check."

He took the bishop with a rook. "Come on, Red. You…" Then he frowned and hunched forward, staring at the board.

A minute later, Kat said, "Still your move."

Grunge touched his king and carefully laid it on its side. "Concede."

"What?" Roxy was flabbergasted. "You've got more than half her back row off the board!"

"Doesn't matter. Forced mate in three moves." He reached a hand to Kat. "Good set."

Hanging on to his hand, she said, "And?"

"And you eat my dessert tonight."

The two players quickly stowed the game in its box while Roxy watched. When Grunge picked it up and headed down the hall to its storage spot, she followed. As soon as they were out of her sister's sight, she kicked him in the butt so hard his teeth clicked. "Got your candy already, didn't you? Jerk."

-0-

"And here we go," Anna said, as she opened the oven door and the smell of broiled meat filled the kitchen. "I declare the first Friday Night Macho Meal officially ready for serving."

"I suppose we're going to have to eat bovine muscle tissue every Friday night from now on," Sarah said peevishly.

"Dunno." Eddie's nostrils flared. "Still in negotiations. I'm pushing for family-style fried chicken next week, but Bobber wants turkey with all the trimmings, kind of Thanksgiving in April. Dude, think of the possibilities. Meat loaf. Pot roast. Real American food, like beef stroganoff and spaghetti. Not like … what was that stuff we had last night? Where did it come from?"

"Borscht, served with traditional black bread, with fruit and cheese blinis for dessert. Mr. Lynch is going to a great deal of trouble to convince IO's spies that we're jetting all over the world trying to avoid capture. You might have to profess some knowledge of the food in exotic places someday. Next week's menu feature is Thai cuisine."

"Except Monday," Kat put in.

"I know. Monday is Fem Fare, Salmone All'olio E Limone. I have the recipe."

"Rich girl food." Eddie made a face. "Straight from a magazine, I bet." He ignored the fist Roxanne put into his shoulder. "Have you ever had it before?"

"Hope it takes longer to eat than it does to pronounce," Bobby said. "Back to Macho Meals. Spose we might get a charcoal grill?"

"I don't see why not," Anna said. "Bobby, can you help me get the broiler pan out of the oven?"

"Sure," Bobby said, and rose from the table. Then he froze and stared at her, as did all five of the teenagers seated. "Uh, you okay?"

"Sure. Just a little sore." Anna pressed at a spot near the small of her back. "Right here. Think I pulled something gardening yesterday. I'm just going to take it easy tonight, and I'm sure I'll be fine tomorrow."

Sarah snorted. Bobby stepped close and looked into Anna's face. He opened his mouth to speak, then stopped as Anna's left eyelid drooped deliberately.

"You should be more careful," he said, his voice low. "I hear, once you hurt your back, it just keeps coming back at the slightest excuse." He wrapped a towel around his hands, stooped, and drew out the big pan laden with sizzling T-bones and set it on the stovetop. "Scuse." He left the kitchen.

Kat stood. "Let me help dish out." She glanced at the other two girls.

Roxanne glanced at Anna. "Uh..."

Sarah folded her arms. "Don't even ask me to take part in this charade."

Bobby came back as Kat set the last place. "Here," he said, holding his fist out, thumb down. Anna held out her hand, and he dropped two tablets into it. "Aspirin. Any person in pain would reach for it. Take them with water."

San Diego

Alex asked, "Notice something odd about this crowd?"

Alex and Melanie were standing idle towards the back of the stage, while Bobby and Lori performed a bridge, a sort of dueling instruments number, facing each other as they played. Melanie scanned the audience of the college bar the Sirens were working this weekend. "I presume you're talking about all the single girls in the house, elbowing the guys out of their way to get close to the stage."

"Yeah. Reminds me of an alligator farm at feeding time. Some of these bimbos were at the gig Wednesday. Looks like they spread the word."

"Well, the management can't say we're not a draw."

"Mel," Alex said as she picked up her sticks, "this is spooky."

Melanie nodded and settled her guitar strap on her shoulder as the duet drew to a close. It was good, she thought, that they'd caught on to Bobby's… whatever you wanted to call it; knowing seemed to lessen the effect somewhat. So did distance, they'd learned; from a stage width away, Bobby was just a very hot guy, not a nearly irresistible one. His mood seemed to have an effect, too: they'd learned more or less to keep their distance when he was intent or emotional. She recognized several of the girls surrounding the stage from school. Some of them had boyfriends, who were nowhere in sight, and there was an awful lot of lip-licking going on down there. _Would it make any difference to them_, she wondered, _if they knew Bobby wasn't old enough to buy a drink here?_

Then she took a close look at Bobby and Lori as they finished up. The group's Goth Princess and Surfer Dude were facing each other across Lori's keyboard, grinning at each other like kids, and Lori's eyes had a strange shine as she watched Bobby's hands on his guitar. _I wonder how much longer it's going to matter to us_.


	8. Strange Attractions

Saturday March 27 2004  
La Jolla California

Eddie rolled and was back on his feet facing his opponent before the pain of his fall could register. _Dang. I know I didn't telegraph that move._ He resolutely pushed frustration from his mind, took a breath, and resumed his stance, sidestepping warily as the L-man stepped closer.

"That looked like it hurt," Kat said. She was talking to Sarah, but Kat's voice carried whenever she raised it even a little, and he was sure everyone in the little side yard heard her. "Are you sure you want to be next?"

"Quite," the Apache Princess replied. "I'm sure he'll go easier on us than he is on Eddie. And I want to learn how to defend myself."

"_Get_ him, Grunge!" Rox was grinning and pumping her fists up and down. "Knock him on his saggy ol' butt!"

His opponent's mouth twitched. "Good to see she's not picking sides." The old dude was out of his comic-book-villain clothes and wearing old sweats that looked fresh from the dryer. Eddie didn't have to look at his own to know they were marked with grass stains and perspiration. He was glad they were sparring on the grassy patch beside the house, rather than the concrete around the pool.

"Where's Bobby?" He heard Kat say as the L-man dropped and swung a leg close to the ground, nearly sweeping Eddie off his feet and nuking his composure.

"Gone," Rox replied. "Said this wasn't his idea of family fun."

He was clearly having lots better luck on defense than offense. The L-man was quick as a snake and full of tricks, but Eddie was quick too, and had a solid defensive repertoire; about one out of three attacks had ended with Eddie down or immobilized. But every attempt to get past Mr. Lynch's guard ended in disaster. And to make matters worse, Eddie was certain the old spook was going easy on him.

He told himself over and over to keep his cool, study his opponent, search for imbalance or weaknesses. He told himself that John Lynch had been doing this sort of thing since before Eddie was born, and for keeps; the chinks in his armor wouldn't be easy to find. He told himself a lot of things to keep from losing it over getting beat worse than he had since he was eight years old, and by a guy almost four times his age. In front of three babes.

"Ooh," Rox said. "My boy is just so _cute_ when he's getting his butt kicked. Is that perverted, or what?"

About a minute later, Eddie was lying on his back with Mr. Lynch sitting on the ground beside him with a forearm under his throat. "I think you've had enough for today, Eddie. You're losing focus." The old dude let go of his head and arm and stood, offering a hand. "Lesson one. I hear you play chess. How do you win at that contest?"

Eddie stood and rolled his shoulders; he was going to be sore tomorrow, he thought. "By staying one move ahead of your opponent, I guess."

"How?"

He shrugged. "By figuring out what he's going to do."

"And?"

"By hiding your own plan until it's too late for him to do anything about it. Wasn't having much luck there."

The L-man nodded. "Every attack failed," he agreed matter-of-factly. "And I'm guessing you showed me your best moves already, so how are you going to get past my guard next time?"

He shrugged again. _If I find a way, you can bet your ass I'll show you instead of telling you._

"While you've been showing me your favorite offensive moves, I've been showing you my favorite defensive ones," the Man said patiently. "Add depth to your attack. Assume your first attempt will fail, and try to anticipate my foiling move."

"I've never even seen some of them, and I thought I was down with every –do style. What was that footwork you were taking me down with?"

"Savate_._"

"That doesn't sound Japanese. Or Korean."

"French."

"Oh. Like, from French Indochina."

The corner of the L-man's mouth twitched. "No, like, from France."

He felt his brows gather. "A martial-arts discipline from France? But Frenchies don't fight."

"Obviously you've never been there. The French have a long and violent history. These days, most of them like to think they've outgrown such things. But I wouldn't insult any Marseilles dockworkers if I were you." With a pat on Eddie's shoulder, he turned to the girls. "Who's next? Caitlin?"

Kat shook her head. "I don't think so. Sometimes when I push myself, my control slips. I wouldn't want to hurt you."

"Then I'll teach you the moves in slow motion, and you can practice alone until you develop muscle memory." He crooked a finger, and the big redhead stepped up gingerly.

Rox grabbed his head in both hands and planted a hot one on him, right in front of her sister. When she let go, he said, a little dizzy, "What was _that _for?"

She smiled at him in a way that made him tingle. "Dunno. Maybe you should spar with Mr. Lynch all the time."

Kat and the L-man squared off. "Since you're a girl, the likeliest thing an attacker will try from the front is to grab for your wrists." The Man's lips thinned for a moment. "Also since you're a girl, your attacker's objective will probably be to force submission, rather than induce an immobilizing injury. If he gets his hands around your wrists, his next likely move will be to push you to the ground. Grab my wrists."

She did, and suddenly the two of them were shoulder to shoulder, and Kat's right arm was locked straight out in both of Mr. Lynch's. Still holding her, he said, "This move doesn't work in slo-mo, actually, so I thought I'd demonstrate first and then explain." He let go and squared off against her again. "Again."

Kat grasped his wrists. "Got you. I think."

"Okay. Now, when someone grabs you like this, your first impulse is to jerk back, which almost never works, and actually moves you in the direction he wants you to go. Instead, sidestep to the left, turn your thumb out, and jerk your right wrist towards his thumb, which is the weak point of his grip. He's probably right-handed, so he's grabbing your strong arm with his weak one; take advantage of that. Then grab _his_ right wrist with your right hand, twist your left wrist the same way and jerk down and break his grip, controlling his strong hand with both of yours." He turned, and her arm was extended with his left forearm against the outside of her elbow. "Now, for about half a second, he's all yours. He can't use his right arm, and he can't reach you with his left. A sharp push and a tug will break his right arm at the elbow, which is bound to cool his ardor. Or a kick to the side of the knee will put him on the ground, and from there, you can run or kick him in the head, your choice."

"I vote for option one," Sarah said. "Or two-B."

"Bloodthirsty savage," Eddie muttered.

From half an arm's length away, Rox looked at him, cool-eyed. "I vote for both. Anything worth doing is worth overdoing."

Mr. Lynch released the big redhead. "Turn around."

Kat turned to face Eddie and the two girls, which put her back to her instructor. She froze wide-eyed as Mr. Lynch put an arm around her waist and pulled her backside against his stomach. "Typical attack from the rear, by a male with bad intentions towards a female. Normally," he said, "if he catches you someplace private, the other arm would go around your shoulders to pin you. I doubt anyone would try that on a girl as tall as you, though; no leverage. So if his other arm comes around you like this…" His forearm crossed one shoulder, just above her breast, and his palm touched the hollow of her throat. "He's either trying to cover your mouth, or he's got a weapon."

Eddie watched Kat's cheeks and chin catch fire, unseen by the man behind her. It only got worse when her teacher flattened his palm against her stomach. "Forget this hand. Concentrate on the hand at your face or neck. Grab the butt of the gun or the base of the palm in both hands for leverage and twist the thumb away from you as you turn to face him, and you can make him let go of your waist and drop to his knees with his hand in the air. Go on, give it a try, Caitlin. Caitlin?"

"Uh. Sorry." She grabbed at his hand, but didn't grip it properly, and instead of forcing him to his knees, she half turned and was brought up short by her grip on his hand with her waist still in the circle of his arm, almost as if they were slow-dancing. Her shoulder bumped his chin. "Sorry," she said again, face flaming.

He seemed not to notice. "It's okay. Let's try it again."

"No." She stepped away as her classmates exchanged glances. "I'm sure I've got enough to think about for now. Who's next?"

-0-

After dinner, Lynch settled onto the living room couch, the TV remote in one hand and a tall glass of Anna's home-brewed ice tea cooling the other. As he turned on the widescreen and selected his channel, he wondered, again, briefly, how someone who didn't eat managed to prepare such delicious meals. Maybe it was just attention to detail and to her bios' tastes. _Or, for all I know, she tastes the soup by dipping her finger into it._

"Gawd. Two miracles at once." Roxanne stood at the end of the couch in a damp swimsuit, a towel around her neck and hands on her hips. "Did I just catch you _smiling_? With no one else to see?" She dropped the towel on the cushion and sat on it. "What were you thinking about?"

"Anna, actually. It's hard to believe that all she knows about cooking comes from magazines and television. I imagine she thinks of the kitchen as a sort of woodshop, and her recipes are blueprints for constructing perfect meals."

"Absolutely," Anna said as she approached from the kitchen. "And I determine whether to serve a dish again by watching you guys eat, and keeping a careful count of eye rolls per serving." She presented the girl with another glass of tea. "Sugared until another teaspoonful won't dissolve." The little android – _cyber, _she called herself – turned back towards the kitchen and stopped to look over her shoulder at them; a gesture she'd learned on television, he was sure. "What's the second miracle?"

Roxanne gestured at him with her free hand. "I've known him for, like, a month and a half. This is the first time I've seen him kick back. In front of the _TV_, no less."

Anna smiled. "Perhaps you're all having a positive effect on him." She moved away.

Roxanne swung her legs up onto the couch, putting her back against the arm of the sofa and her bare feet against his leg. "Whatcha watching?"

"C-SPAN. Armed Forces Committee hearing on the sale of surface-to-air missiles to some Middle Eastern country."

"_Bo_-ring." She prodded him in the ribs with a toe. "Can't believe you waste your time on this stuff."

"It's a sort of professional interest. And it's not boring if you understand the rules of the game and the players. The strategizing is layered and quite involved. How ambitious are this country's leaders? Would strengthening their defensive capability make them more likely to attack their neighbors? Would US forces likely get involved? In which case, our planes might end up facing our missiles. Which could be a good thing, since we know our weapon systems' capabilities and should be able to develop effective counters in advance – maybe even build them into the weapons we sell. Or would it be best not to sell? I'm sure _this_ guy doesn't think so; the missile firm is based in his home state, and drops a lot of cash on his campaign. Are any other countries prepared to sell these guys missile systems if we turn down the deal?"

"Like I said. Boring." Her chin bobbed. "How's your belly?"

"Stretched. Oh, you mean the stitches. Just a little itchy. Thanks for taking them out." He glanced at her. It seemed strange to feel so completely relaxed around this girl-child. And her casual attitude towards him was just as puzzling. It occurred to him that the swimsuit she wore displayed more skin than a girl should show any male before her wedding night. "If you're not going back in the pool, maybe you should get dressed."

"Haven't decided." Her eyes lightened until they were as bright as Caitlin's. "The lecture's on your lips, I see it, kind of frothy-like. I'm glad I'm not wearing my _skimpy_ suit. I'd hate to give you a heart attack." She stood and wrapped her towel around herself. "Better?"

"Much."

She resumed her position. "Can't _believe_ you sometimes. I'm fifteen years old." She scooted down and put her feet in his lap.

"Exactly." He rested one hand over her crossed ankles. They sipped their drinks. _I wonder what it would be like to live a normal life, where arguing with your teenage daughter about her wardrobe is your biggest headache._

"I suppose you'd rather we all dressed like nuns. Bet you picked Anna's street clothes." She wrinkled her nose.

"What's wrong with them?"

"Nothing. They're perfect if you're worried some guy might hit on her in the supermarket or something."

He imagined Anna trying to deal with a flirtatious man. _Do you want sex now? You sound ready. _He shivered.

"Hey. I was just kidding."

"I know." He stood, dropping her feet on the couch, and tossed her the remote.

"_Sorry_, Jeez."

"Nothing to do with you, Roxanne." He patted her ankle. "Guess I just can't be a normal person for too long before I start getting jumpy."

He headed down the hall to his basement office. His path led past the kitchen door. Anna was taking a tray of chocolate cupcakes out of the oven, and smiled sweetly at him as he passed. The knot in his stomach didn't unclench until he was downstairs.

Sunday March 28 2004  
Escondido California

Lynch kicked aside a small pile of empty beer cans and preceded Anna through the creaking door. He switched on a powerful flashlight, sweeping the interior of the building. Leading the way with a flashlight was totally unnecessary, he knew; his little housekeeper could have seen perfectly using the starlight filtering through the open doorway. The beam touched on sodden carpet, sagging ceilings, and drywall riddled with gaping holes. The smell of wet charcoal was everywhere. "What do you think?"

"I think it's no place to raise a family, unless you're a rat. What happened here?"

"Fire. The shell is almost intact, but the interior was gutted. The Historic Preservation Society is the only reason it hasn't been razed already."

"You make this sound like good news, sir."

"As I said, it's structurally sound. The inside looks like hell, but we can hollow it out and start over. It has three times the floor space of the beach house, half of it underground. It's got a lot of potential."

"Are you quoting the realtor, by any chance? This looks like something they'd call a 'unique handyman's special,' or some such."

He turned to her. "It can be radically remodeled on the inside without any changes to its outside appearance. It can be reached from the beach house overnight, even on foot. It's farther from any urban center, but there are plenty of routes in and out. The hidden floors have enough room to hold all of the loot I took from the warehouse, which would reduce the risk of discovery I take every time I visit my caches." He studied his companion as she swept the space with a blank face and God knew what sensing capability. "And the kids could have their own rooms."

Her gaze turned to him then. "You don't think they're going home at all, do you?"

"Not for years, anyway. You've seen how hard IO's trying to find them. And the hunt is still ramping up. I have to assume the beach house will be compromised sooner or later. This will be our next safe house."

She turned back to the wrecked interior. "You don't want a crew of strangers in here."

"No. We'll have to remodel it ourselves, a little at a time to avoid notice. It might take a long time." He drew a breath. "Do you think you can learn the necessary skills?"

"Of course, sir." She turned to him. "Do you have a floor plan?"

He shook his head. "I have some specs and requirements. I'll see to it the project has a proper budget and doesn't attract official attention. Beyond that, it's your baby."

Her eyes widened. "I can design and decorate it? Paper and paint and… everything?" For a moment, she looked like a little girl on Christmas.

He smiled. "All yours."

9


	9. Checking Out Girls

Monday March 29 2004  
MacArthur University

Joel sat at his usual lunch spot, his books spread all over the six-place table's surface. Also as usual, he didn't have to worry about crowding anyone, because he was alone. He couldn't remember the last time the cafeteria had been so busy someone had been forced to share a table with him; Freudian block, he supposed. Joel didn't make small talk, and striking up conversations with strangers was a completely foreign concept. As far as he was concerned, lunch was just a study hall with food handy. He barely noticed the noise and chatter around him as he dug into his work.

A book thumped onto the surface of the table on top of one of his papers, and a bag into the seat across from his. "Be right back." He looked up just I time for an eye-level close-up of Kat's booty as she turned towards the serving line.

When she came back, laden tray in hand, he had most of his clutter put away. She settled into the seat and bumped knees with him under the table. "Sorry."

"Nada. What are you doing here? This isn't your lunch."

She stretched out, unselfconsciously putting one of her legs between his. "Teacher's sick, no sub. They asked me to do it, can you believe?"

He smiled up at her. "Why not? I bet you're prepared."

"I know the material, maybe, but I'll never be prepared to stand up in front of an audience and teach. Just not my style." She lifted a bowl of soup from her tray, set it in front of him, and stuck a spoon in. "The food's not bad here. You shouldn't go all day without eating."

"Yes, Mother." He raised a spoonful to his face and blew. "Why'd you pick this table to sit at?"

Her brows gathered. "Is that a trick question?"

He nodded across the way to a large table half full of male students, all of whom were looking their way. "Bet they'd make room for you. And you can bet they're better conversationalists."

She shook her head softly, a smile touching her lips. "And what would we talk about, Joel?" She leaned forward, and he caught a hint of perfume. "I told you before, I'm not into that. Speaking of which. How was your date?"

"Tolerable," he admitted. "Alex behaved herself, mostly. A little handsy."

"She's an artist. They're expressive people, not like us reserved scientist types." She blew on her own spoon. "So, are you going to ask her out again?"

"Haven't decided."

"Well, don't wait too long. A girl like Alex must get offers all the time. She's been waiting for you to notice her, but now you've gone out. If you don't follow up, she'll figure she's wasting her time."

"For a girl who doesn't date, you know a lot about the politics."

"Older sister. Cousin, actually, but she might as well be. I live with my aunt and uncle."

"Oh? Where?"

She hesitated. "Washington State. Seattle."

"And your last school was in Maryland. Rutherford."

"Yes," she said faintly. "My last school."

"Hey," Alex's voice came from behind him, "how are our two resident brainiacs doing?" She sat beside him with a smile.

"Alex," he said, "the Ed Sciences building is halfway across campus. What are you doing here?"

"Heard about the soup." She dipped his spoon into his bowl and touched it to her lips. "So the stories are true. I thought they fired any cook they caught making something edible."

He smiled despite himself. "She's on probation. Tomorrow is cardboard pizza day. If anyone gets back in line for seconds, she's out."

"My God, he has a sense of humor. Stunted and weird, but still." She turned to Kat. "What have you been doing to him?"

"Chipping at the block of stone to free the sculpture trapped inside."

"Gad." Alex widened her eyes theatrically. "A computer science major who quotes Rodin. The world is coming to an end."

"Um, Michelangelo said it first."

"When's your next gig?" He said, a little rougher than he'd intended. Sometimes he didn't know how to take Alex. He hoped she was just teasing Kat, but he wasn't sure.

"Week from Friday. Another bar in University Heights."

"So you're free this weekend?"

The banter disappeared from her voice. "I'm headed to TJ with my sister and her boyfriend Saturday night, is all."

He swallowed. "Want to do another movie Friday?"

"No, thanks." An unaccustomed heaviness settled in his shoulders before she said, "I think I'd rather take a drive. What say we ride the Coast Highway to Santa Monica? Stroll the boardwalk, watch the sunset, grab a bite, drive home."

"Alex," he said slowly, "Santa Monica's two, maybe three hours away. Even without stopping to eat, that's five or six hours in the car with nothing to do but look out the windows and listen to the radio…" He swallowed. "And talk."

She gave him a funny little smile. "That's kind of the idea."

"We probably wouldn't get home before midnight."

"Gotta be home before the streetlights come on? Maybe I can ask your mom if you can stay up past bedtime." She turned to Kat. "Are you geniuses all like this?"

Kat dipped her chin. "Hope not, we'll never reproduce."

"Hey, Sis. You cutting class or something?" One of the newcomer girls Kat ran with, a little cheerleader type with short black hair frosted purple. She dropped into the seat beside the big redhead, just as _another_ one showed up, the Asian-looking girl with the waist-length black hair. "Sarah, grab a seat."

Kat made introductions while Joel glanced around, feeling hunted and exposed. As he expected, guys and more than a few girls were glancing toward his table and talking with lowered voices.

"Something wrong, Joel?" Kat's eyebrows were gathered in concern.

_Zysik was right: life as I know it is about to end. _"Right now, fifty horn dawgs are watching me share lunch with four of the hottest girls in school. Tomorrow I won't be able to find a place to sit without a squad of them dropping in all around and cluttering the table and poking me with their elbows while they wait for you."

Alex quirked a smile. "Only you could make that into a reason to gripe."

"If I wanted to be popular, I'd get a lobotomy."

"I doubt that would be surgery enough," Sarah said as she stood and turned towards the serving line. "I'm sure you'd need a personality transplant as well."

Alex stared after Sarah. "She come from Rutherford too? Cuz, frankly, she's more like I would expect."

Roxy giggled. Kat shook her head. "Believe me, the girls at Rutherford are _nothing_ like Sarah."

Joel sat back and followed the conversation as the girls talked. He was glad they stayed away from "girl subjects" – gossip and clothes and such – even though he didn't join in. Alex tried to draw him in a couple of times, but he backed away with a neutral statement, content just to listen and…

_And be included._

"Water polo? Kat, I know you said you like to swim, but…" Alex shrugged. "I thought you couldn't touch the bottom of the pool in water polo."

"You can't. That's why the players are usually short." Kat sipped her bottled water. "But I've got a very strong kick, and I can keep my feet tucked just fine. They made me a goalie."

"O-_kay_. So, what are you guys studying?" Alex addressed Sarah and Roxy.

"I'm just moving out of core subjects," Sarah said. "I think I'll be majoring in climatology or meteorological science. I'm developing an interest in weather."

"Same." Roxy noshed a carrot stick. "But I'm headed for a physics major. Astrophysics, I think. I want to study gravitational effects."

Alex groaned. "God. Two _more_ cheerleader geeks. Don't you know you're flying in the face of centuries of male research? Girls _cannot_ be brainy and good-looking both. It's a law of nature." She rested each of her hands on one of theirs. "It's not too late," she said earnestly. "We've lost Kat, for sure, but we can still save you. Come over to the Liberal Arts College. We'll set you up with a bunch of fluff courses and teach you to toss your hair and giggle."

Sarah's eyebrow merely lifted, but Roxy snorted. "Well, I am taking a couple dance electives. Wish I hadn't though. They're not fluff, but I'm not gonna learn much either."

"Oh? You dance?"

"Only since I could, like, walk. Self-taught."

Alex lowered her voice. "Like Bobby, huh? I'll bet you're good."

Sarah stood, tray in hand. "My next class is halfway across campus. Nice meeting you, Alex." She looked down at him. "You too, Joel. When you've heard a million variations of pickup lines, you start hearing them even in innocent remarks." She turned for the kitchen conveyor at the exit.

"Well," Kat said quietly. "That's the closest to an apology I've ever heard from her. You must have made an impression."

"Well, it's true," he said stubbornly, feeling defensive. He'd never tried a pickup line in his life. "You guys are okay, don't get me wrong, but having girls like you and Alex around complicates my life."

Alex rolled her eyes. "I swear, Joel. If you were sharing sheets with Jessica Alba and she was handing you her paycheck, you'd bitch about her cooking." But she smiled at him in a way that made him feel warm and strange. He couldn't guess why, but the little blonde was clearly pleased with him.

Kat was working her way through her meal with efficiency and speed; any guy he knew who ate so fast would be getting food on the table. And his tablemates. She came up for air long enough to ask Alex, "Who's Jessica Alba?"

"Girl, where have you _been_? She's the latest fantasy girl for every guy on the planet. Big dark eyes, pouty lips, gym-rat physique, long dark hair. She did _Honey_. I think she's gone blonde for _Fantastic Four_."

"I don't go to movies much." Kat picked up her fork again. "TV, either. Sometimes the Discovery Channel has something I want to watch, or Roxy will drag me to the couch to watch one of her favorites."

"Kat, you are _such_ a geek."

"I'll take that as a compliment. Why waste your time watching some boy-toy with a sixth-grader's acting skills stumble through an inane skin flick?"

"No, actually, she can act when they let her. I loved her in _Dark Angel_."

"Sounds sexy and dangerous. A bad-girl movie?" She forked another bite.

"TV series. Sci-fi. She played this genetically-engineered superchick escaped from a government lab."

Kat's fork paused an inch from her mouth. It occurred to him that she was even prettier than usual today. "Really."

"Yeah. The government was trying to grow super-soldiers or some such, and a bunch of them got away. It got canceled after two seasons. I liked the first season best, where she was trying to hunker down and not get caught while she made a life for herself. In Seattle, of all places." Alex took a spoonful of Joel's cooling soup. "They kinda jumped the shark at the end of season two. Introduced a bunch of new characters, mutants with freaky talents. Still, not bad." She frowned at Kat. "Something wrong?"

Kat set down her fork. "Ate too fast."

Something strange was happening with Kat, Joel thought, but it wasn't wrong. Nothing about Kat could ever be wrong. She was absolutely the most perfect female he'd ever seen. Her eyes were priceless jewels; her hair a shining crown, her lips a prize any man would sell his soul to possess. He leaned forward…

…and shook his head to clear it. _Was I really thinking of kissing her?_ He stared at his lab partner, who was still intent on Alex and oblivious to what he'd just done.

He felt his eyes pulled back to her, to her long slender fingers and coral-colored nails that matched her lush mouth. When his eyes started drifting to her chest, shame tore his eyes free and directed them past her shoulder.

The male diners had been glancing this way since the girls had gathered at his table. They'd smiled and made ridiculous facial gestures and leaned forward to trade comments, comparing notes on 'Fantasy' Fairchild, the tall busty redhead that nobody but supergeek Joel Richards could score even a study date from.

That had changed since Alex had started talking about her silly TV show. The onlookers were now staring openly, silent and vacuous as moviegoers. Or hypnosis subjects. A couple got to their feet as if sleepwalking and took a slow step towards the table. It reminded Joel of some creepy zombie flick.

It was incredible. He'd heard that some girls were cute when they were mad, and he supposed it was only natural to feel drawn to a girl, especially a pretty one, who was troubled, but…

Kat stood with tray in hand and reached for her bag. "Those last few bites didn't settle so well. Think I'll hit the bathroom before class. See you, guys."

Joel was suddenly aware of Roxy, still sitting at the table. He wondered what the little brunette had been looking at when he'd been putting on his disgraceful performance. Right now, she was watching the half-dozen guys drifting towards the door in Kat's wake. They seemed to reclaim their wits more or less at the same time, and walked back to their seats or continued out the door with a puzzled expression. The girl's violet eyes flicked his way and back to the guys at the door, and he knew she'd seen him. She shook her head slightly. "Poor Kat."

Alex had been watching the parade. "I should have her problems. Bet I wouldn't be working near as hard for my As."

"Alex," he said, "she works hard for every point she gets."

"Don't doubt it. But I'm an Ed major, remember? Lots of essay questions in my exams. Bet my teachers would be softer grades if I had a nickname like 'Fantasy.'"

-0-

Gordie Wilson looked exactly like a nerd to someone who knew real nerds and knew how they really looked. For example, that their appearance often fell outside one end or the other of the norms for actuarial weight and personal hygiene. Some geeks were AR about their grooming, and skipped so many meals they were skinny as castaways. At the other end of the spectrum were guys like Gordie, who clearly spent most of his life in front of his monitor, neglecting sleep and personal care, cramming convenience food into his doughy mouth as he worked. He looked up from his big padded office chair as Joel came in, and Joel could see a fingerprint in the middle of his right eyeglass lens. "Let me guess. Another workup on a teacher."

"Not this time. Student. Caitlin Fairchild."

Gordie studied him a moment. "Caitlin Fairchild, huh? Gotta say, didn't expect it from you, Richards." He turned to his monitor and tapped at the wireless keyboard in his lap. "Alex Shearson, that's another story."

His ears burned. "I dated her one time, Gordie. How did you even know about that?"

"Just cuz I graduated, it doesn't mean I'm not plugged in. Why you chasing after 'Fantasy' Fairchild?"

"She's my lab partner. I want to know more about who I'm sharing my last lab with."

"Kay. Stick or hardcopy?"

"Stick. How soon, do you think?"

Gordie plugged a memory stick into a port and clicked the rollerball on his keyboard. "Bout ten seconds." He looked up. "What, you think you're the first guy asked me for a workup on this chick? Or the thirty-first? Be warned, you're gonna find some mysteries and disappointments in here. No bra size."

He tucked his chin. "Why the hell would I want to know her bra size?"

Gordie gave him a _you're-hopeless_ look. "A guy wants a file on some girl, that question's always in the top ten. Along with birthday, address and phone number, hobbies, and hangouts. With this chick, the bra-size thing is question number one, three times out of four. Nobody cares about academic records, which is a shame, cuz it's the most interesting thing about her file. Besides the fact she's jailbait." He handed over the stick. "Oh, you knew, huh? Their chins usually hit their chests when I tell em that."

Joel nodded. "How much for this?"

Gordie waved him away. "The stick is six bucks, my cost. I already made a fortune on this file. Some of these losers, it's a pleasure taking their money." As he turned away, the computer geek suddenly said, "Wait." Gordie paused, and plunged in. "What's she like, really?"

Joel smiled down at him. "Crazy smart. Sharp-witted, but not sharp-tongued. Nice sense of humor. And she's _so_ not stuck on herself. If you walked up to her and introduced yourself, she'd talk to you, man. But she doesn't trust guys who come on to her. She takes herself serious, and she won't hang with somebody who thinks of her as a playtoy."

Gordie smiled back. "So, you like her, huh?"

"Not like that. Well, mostly not like that. But the more time we spend together, the less I'm sure I know about her."

Back at his bedroom workstation, Joel sat down with a plate of leftovers at one hand and a pad and pencil at the other and opened the file.

Caitlin Marie Fairchild had been born August second, nineteen eighty-six, in Annandale, Virginia, to Colleen and Alexander Fairchild. Her mom's occupation was listed as 'legal secretary'; her dad's was blank. That seemed odd. Gordie should have been able to dig that item out with ease. Joel couldn't believe the man was some jobless loser; Kat would have come from quality people.

He saw her mother had divorced her father three years later. _Maybe not._ Then a newspaper article describing the death of Colleen in February of ninety-one, when Kat was five and a half. Joel felt an unaccustomed pang. Next of kin was listed as Nathan Fairchild, Alex's brother, in Seattle, Washington. _She said her uncle and aunt raised her._

The next ten years of Caitlin Fairchild's life were an unbroken string of outstanding academic achievements. Early on, her aunt and uncle had seen her potential and had dropped eight grand a year to enroll her in private school. Even in the most academically challenging environment they could buy her, she'd blown the doors off the school curriculum and reached the ninth grade by age eleven. Her dad had gone to court to get her enrolled in a private high school. She'd breezed through her four years, loading on half a year's worth of college-credit electives as well, and given the commencement address at fifteen.

He studied her yearbooks. The posed photos showed a little redheaded elf with a serious expression. Her eyes, still a luminous green, were magnified behind thick lenses. Her extracurriculars consisted of the school chess club, computer club, and the Pioneer Club, a geek association that put together projects to compete in science and technology fairs. No sports, no social organizations. She didn't have time for that. In her senior yearbook, she'd been voted 'Most Likely to Do Absolutely Anything except Score a Date.' He could sympathize.

You'd think colleges would be falling over each other to woo such a student, but, apparently, there were liabilities to consider before accepting a kid no older than most high school sophomores. Some of them were legal, involving various state regulations and age of consent. But, reading between the lines of a few of the many rejection letters in her file, he suspected more than one institution of higher learning was nervous about setting her loose on their syllabus and casting doubts on the quality of their courses. Her uncle started threatening to go to court again.

Rutherford University, a prestigious Ivy League school in Maryland, had agreed to take her in. But they hadn't made it easy; in fact, they'd almost seemed to be making it hard as possible for her. The school had set aside her earned credits and hadn't allowed her to comp-test out of any subjects, forcing her to grind away doing schoolwork in courses she probably could have taught for half her freshman year. He was shocked to see they hadn't offered her a penny in financial aid, declaring her too young to be eligible. Without school backing, scholarships and grants had been almost impossible to secure; what she and her parents had been able to acquire had amounted to chump change. She filed her first tax return that year, having apparently taken a job to defray costs. Her income had been low enough to make filing optional, and probably hadn't paid for her books. She'd finished her freshman year in spring of oh-three and hadn't gone back, no doubt tapped out. Rutherford had run her out of school while avoiding any doubts concerning their ability to teach her, even though she'd learned damned little there.

Joel ground his teeth at the duplicity, and the waste. His outrage changed to puzzlement when he saw that her records ended at that point. He called Gordie. "The file's short, Wilson. It ends at her freshman year at Rutherford."

"_Because that's where the data trail ends. I can't find any current information on her._"

"Oh, come _on. _She's enrolled in classes. Her grades are being recorded. She's got to have a file at MacArthur, at least. And she drives."

"_No. No license application, ever. No registration. No tickets, no arrest record. No apps for financial aid in two years. No official paper at all. No charge accounts or financials of any kind, not even a tax return. She hasn't even filled a frickin prescription since September of oh-two. Her last year is a black hole._"

An idea occurred. "She's a computer science major. She does stuff with a laptop you wouldn't believe. Could she maybe…"

"_If she's that good, she's got no business in school, Richards. MacArthur's got nothing to teach her. Cuz, frankly, I can't do it, and I can't even guess how it could be done without official cooperation. I'm talking everybody from school administrators to the Federal government. Which brings us to the next phase of our little conversation._ _You're about to ask me for workups on her friends, right?_"

He caught it. "Which you already have. You're making a fortune off these guys, aren't you?"

"_The girls especially. You want the actual files, or just a Gordie's Digest?_"

"Tell me."

"_All their tracks disappear into the rocks in the spring or early summer of last year. Before that, there's no evidence they even knew each other._"

"Kat and Roxy are sisters."

"_With different last names, different moms on their birth certificates, and last known addresses three thousand miles apart. They were all scattered across the country, with no associations I can dig out. None of them has an academic record even close to Kat's. Bobby Lynch was in remedial school when he dropped off the grid._"

"And now they're here, all of them quietly taking courses years ahead of their normal grade level. What do you think?"

He could almost hear the shrug. "_Witness Protection Program, maybe? It doesn't really add up, but it's all I got._"

He felt a chill. "If they are, you're not doing them any favors selling their files, Gordie."

"_Which is why you're the only guy who's seen one of the real ones._"

"Wait. You _made up _files to sell?"

"_Well, I stuck to the truth where it mattered to them, Richards. I told you they're not looking for substance, just grist for pickup lines mostly. None of them questions why the file is thin. I pass off the lack of current info as 'information lag.' You'd think most of them would know better._"

He shifted the phone to his other ear. "What kind of trial would bring them together in hiding here?"

"_Again, no answers._"

He said carefully, "Any history of sexual assault? On any of them?"

"_No. Well, no, but… Watch your back around Bobby Lynch, man. That guy… well, digging through his history's like crawling through concertina. Left on a doorstep as an infant. Had a foster family till he was six, then taken out of the house for 'medical reasons.' Very unusual, sounds fishy as hell to me. Three years in the orphanage, no adoption offers. They didn't even try to foster him out, just kept him in the dorm while twenty kids came and went. I got a photo of him at age nine that looks like a walk-on from Children of the Corn. Lots of bad behavior and time in juvie. He finally fosters out, and his people send him back a year later, and he goes straight back to juvie. He gets shipped out as soon as the cell door opens, and then things get __really__ strange. He drops off the grid for two years, at the end of which time his fosters are charged under a sealed indictment and convicted. The court records are sealed, too, which means two things. One, it involved victims who are still minors, and two, it was __really__ bad. I'm guessing kiddy porn. Since then, he's lived quiet with a new set of fosters and worked hard to fit in. But then comes this common event that pushes them together and wipes all their records. I wouldn't want to be in a room with him when he snaps._"

He remembered meeting the neat and unassuming blond guy Kat was so fond of when he'd picked Mel up for her date, and how impressed his sister had been with him. And wasn't he in her band now? "I've met him. He seems okay. Mel likes him."

"_I hear sociopaths can be charming. Richards, every time they find body parts in some guy's freezer, the neighbors always say the same thing. 'I just can't believe it. He seemed so normal. I didn't have a clue.'"_

He shook his head. "I think you spend too much time alone, Wilson."

"_Look who's talking. Sure you don't want a workup on Alex?_"

He stilled. "You've got one already?"

"_Again, you wouldn't be the first to express an interest._"

"Who?"

"_Tsk. Tsk. You know my client records are confidential._"

"You break into people's lives for a living, sell their underwear sizes even, and you won't tell me who's been checking out my girlfriend?" _Girlfriend? _"Wait, no, that just slipped out."

"_Yeah. It just did. Capricorn, thirty-four B, and she's not on the Pill._"


	10. The More You Learn, the Less You Know

Tuesday March 30 2004  
La Jolla

Roxanne stood at Bobby and Grunge's door, arguing with herself. _This is ridiculous_. _I'm not a jealous little schoolgirl._ _What do I expect to find? And if I do find something, what do I plan to do with it? _But she knocked softly on the door, not to see if Grunge or Bobby was inside - she knew they were at the mall, watching some guy movie full of explosions and car chases and trampy women - but to make sure Anna wasn't. A moment later, she slipped inside and shut the door behind her.

Even if she hadn't already known, a glance would have told her which half of the little bedroom was Grunge's. The division of territory was as clear as in the room she and Kat shared, and marked much the same way. Bobby's side of the room was neat and picked-up and kind of impersonal. _He lives in here as if he might move again overnight_, she thought with a pang. The only individual touches were the guitar mags on his nightstand and the acoustic on his bed, objects he could leave behind or pick up on his way out the door.

Grunge's walls were papered with Hawaiian Tropic posters, bronzed bikini-clad hotties smiling enticingly for the camera. His skateboard leaned in one corner, and the shared closet was open on his side, revealing a couple of boxes on the over-rod shelf that she presumed held his magazines and comics. He'd moved in and denned up.

She sat down gingerly on his bed, feeling like a snoop and a slut at the same time, because she wasn't entirely sure what she was doing here. _What am I looking for? Mash notes from Brittany, that skank in his Math class? Or evidence from some other girl I don't know about at all? Or… what would happen if he comes in alone and finds me here… and locks the door behind him?_

She dropped backwards to lie crossways on the bed. She reached for a pillow, thinking to draw it under her head. But her hand froze as she looked up at the ceiling.

Not all Grunge's posters were mounted on the walls. Directly above her, where it would likely be the first thing he saw as he settled into bed, was a centerfold from some skin mag. The bimbo staring smokily down at her wearing nothing but a lace choker and footie socks was a leggy green-eyed redhead.

She felt heat rise, and felt herself rising as well. She got a grip on her Gen and settled back down to the mattress. Then she slid her hand under the pillow, intending to fling it with everything she had at the offending picture. But her fingers touched something solid underneath, and a quick exploration determined it was a book, placed open and pages-down to hold his place. She pulled it out carefully and looked at the title.

_Beneath the Wheel  
__Hermann Hesse_

She recognized the author's name from Lit class: a highbrow German novelist from the first half of the twentieth century. His book _Siddhartha_ was on the required-reading list, and she'd waded through the story of a monk who leaves the monastery, becomes rich, and reclaims his soul by turning his back on his riches and becoming a near-penniless ferryman living in a dirt-floored hut and finding inner peace just listening to the river, ho hum. But she'd never heard of this one. _Is he reading it on his own? And why stuff it under his pillow? He goes to bed surrounded by smut, and he hides this?_ Then she remembered their last night as students at Darwin, when she'd walked into his room and found him with a book like this. He'd put it aside as if he'd been embarrassed to be caught with it.

She replaced it carefully, then, on impulse, looked under his bed. The only thing underneath it was another book - a paperback, looked like. She reached under and pulled it out.

The front of the book looked like a product of the Psychedelic Sixties: purple cover, a picture of a wrench growing out of a flower. The title was totally Sixties, too:

_Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance  
__By  
__Walter M. Pirsig_

Another book she was sure wasn't on the list. She replaced it as well, and left quietly, thinking_. Well, I half expected to discover my boyfriend is living a double life. But it's not the one I expected._

She went downstairs to the basement, past the laundry room, and stopped at the door to Mr. Lynch's office. She tapped on the panel. "Mr. Lynch? Are you in there?"

"What is it, Roxy?" No invitation to come in.

"Um, can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Wait." Faint noises as he put away stuff he presumably didn't want her to see. She kind of doubted he was stashing his porn. "Come in."

She entered it for the first time. "Yikes."

"Not what you expected?"

"Anna said the place was kind of plain. I didn't think she meant prison-cell plain." Mr. Lynch's office was outright dumpy for a man with his money and taste. The artwork and expensive furnishings in the common spaces upstairs were nowhere to be seen here. The only pictures were framed photos, either black-and-white or color prints washed out with age. The battered-looking steel desk had a top that was scratched and stained. The only objects presently on it were a coffee mug filled with pencils and markers, a fancy flat-screen monitor, and a mouse and keyboard. "Where's all the pretty stuff?"

"I find I work best with a minimum of distractions. And beautiful things are very distracting." He gave her a tiny smile, just a quirk at the corner of his mouth. "So, what's on your mind?"

"Have you ever heard of Herman Hess?"

He shook his head. "Somebody bothering you?"

"No, nothing like that. He was a writer. _Siddhartha?_"

"Ah. Hermann Hesse," he said, pronouncing it _Hare-mon Hessa_. "He also wrote _Steppenwolf_, _Magister Ludi_, and a bunch of others. I've read most of them. Variations on a theme, really. But good stuff."

"What about _Beneath the Wheel?_ What's that one about?"

"Well, it's about this gifted student who's made to sacrifice any chance of a normal life to devote himself to his studies, and gets crushed by other people's expectations. He finally finds some measure of peace by flunking out, turning his back on academic life, and becoming a blacksmith, as I recall." The Man leaned forward over the desk. "Why the interest?"

"First, I've got another one. _Zen and the Art of Motorcycles_."

"_Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance_?"

"Right, that. What's it about?"

"It's about more than one thing, I'd say. On one level, it's a treatise on living a successful life by blending rationality and spirituality. On another, it's about a man so obsessed with finding the ultimate answers to everything he's in danger of losing his place in the world around him, along with his sanity. Near the end of the book, he comes within a hair of committing suicide." He steepled his fingers. "Pretty heavy reading for a girl whose favorite periodicals are _Teen Beat_ and _Dance Fever_. Schoolwork?"

"No, no. I just came across them while I was looking for something else. I was just curious." _Curious what kind of person would read this stuff. But I still don't know. I can't imagine two guys any more different than you and him._ "Well, thanks." She turned to leave.

"Wait. Since you're here. Two things. First, did Anna ask you about going shopping?"

"Shopping? For what?"

"For Thursday." When she didn't respond, he prompted, "April first."

Her fists flew to her chest. "Gawd! Sarah's seventeenth! I just _suck_ remembering stuff like that."

"Fortunately, Anna has no problem with it at all. But she _would_ like some help picking a gift. I think your sister's going, too."

"Not the boys."

"No, they're mounting their own expedition. I shudder to think what they may bring back."

"Kay. I'll talk to her first chance. What's the other thing?"

He rose and stepped around the desk. "The picture hanging by the door. Eight men standing in front of a helicopter. Take a close look."

She stepped to the door and brought her face close to the big framed photo. It was one of the color ones, faded to soft pastels, making the bright sunshine in the scene seem furnace-like. Eight guys in old-fashioned camouflage uniforms, posed along the side of a big ugly helicopter. The background behind it was bare dirt changing abruptly to jungle, a curtain of green. The men didn't wear helmets, though some of them wore hats. And they were all armed to the teeth. But they didn't look grim or menacing, even though she was sure they were ten times more dangerous than any gang she'd avoided in school. They almost were like old buds on a camping trip. An inscription penned in the corner read _Cambodia 3-23-78_. She frowned. _Wasn't the war over years before that?_

A figure in the center of the group drew her attention: a dark-haired man with a kerchief bound around his head Rambo-style. Lean and tough-looking as they all were, this man was different. The others were sort of arranged around him, as if he was the leader, and he was clearly comfortable in the role. He looked at the camera with an easy confidence in his root-beer-brown eyes.

The glass covering the old photo wasn't anti-glare; in its reflection, she saw the Man behind her over her shoulder.

"You were so handsome." She didn't realize she'd recognized him before the words were out.

"I was thirty-two. Still old enough to be your father, and you hadn't even been conceived yet. Speaking of which. The blond-haired man with the neckerchief rolled into a sweatband on his forehead, two from my right."

She reached out and touched the figure. She could see a resemblance to Kat in the jaw and chin and the shape of his eyes. _Alex Fairchild. Kat's dad, and mine._ "He's beautiful. No wonder Mom couldn't resist him." It came out a lot harsher than it had sounded in her head.

"Don't judge him too harshly. Roxy. If it wasn't for his trifling ways, you wouldn't be here. From where I'm standing, I'd have to call that a win." His hand rested briefly on her shoulder and lifted away.

"The Oriental guy next to him. Is that who I think?"

"Philip Chang. Eddie's dad."

The other men were strangers, unrecognizable. She took her finger off her father's image and looked again at the younger Jack Lynch, and suddenly her attention was pulled, caught like a fly in a spiderweb, really, to the man standing just behind him. "Who _is_ that?"

"That," the Man in Black said, "is Stephen Callahan. Matt and Nicole's dad."

She studied the figure. He was okay-looking, she thought, but no Alex Fairchild, and didn't look much like either of his kids. He was average height and kind of stocky, the kind of guy who didn't have to pump iron to look bulky and intimidating. But that wasn't what had pulled her eye to him. She was sure it was just a trick of the camera angle or something, but she got the eerie feeling he was staring through the photograph and seeing her, a quarter-century and ten thousand miles away…

She realized she'd been staring at this stranger for longer than she'd looked at her father. "He seems nice."

"He loved his kids," the Man said tersely. "He told me more than once they were the most important thing on earth to him." He stirred, as if he was uncomfortable. "Is that all? I don't want to seem brusque, but I really need to get back to work..."

"And I'm distracting you. Sorry. Shouldn't have come in here with my goofy questions."

"The questions were the least of it. Like I said, beautiful things. Shoo."

Thursday April 1 2004

"Surprise!" Five voices called in unison as Sarah stepped into the living room.

She raised her eyebrows. "Oh, good grief." Her four friends and Anna stood smiling around the coffee table, which held an assortment of wrapped packages.

"Happy B-day, Sarah." Bobby smiled at her. "For the next ninety days, you're a year older than me."

"_Now we're the same age," Beth would say every year as she blew out the candles on her cake. "For ten days, anyway."_

Bobby presented her with a flat square package, obviously a CD case. "Open this one first."

The jewel case was decorated with a desert scene that formed a background for a picture of a "native" drum and a flute with feathers attached to the end. If she'd seen it in a music store, she'd have wrinkled her nose at the Native American kitsch. But Bobby's taste in music was excellent; even if the flautist's style wasn't authentic as her grandfather's, it would be good. She decided not to remind him that she didn't own a CD player. "It's wonderful, Bobby. Thank you." _I can listen to it in the car, anyway._

"Mine next." Roxanne's package was an inch tall and fit in her hand.

She unwrapped it. As she'd expected, it was a jewel box. She opened the lid and drew a quick breath. "Oh. It's beautiful." It was a necklace: a slender chain with a small peridot pendant. She lifted it out of the little box, and judged that when she put it on, the pendant would hang almost between the tops of her breasts. The faceted stone was clear, an almost luminous yellow-green that threw shards of light into her eyes. "Where did you find it?"

"Jeweler's on Draper carries unusual gemstones. You pick out what you want and they mount it. I know how you like peridot. Anna took one look at it and said I had to get it for you."

Her enthusiasm cooled slightly. "Thank you. I'll put it on as soon as I wear something that goes with it." She shifted her attention to Eddie, and the shoebox-sized parcel in his hand. "What have we here? Something from Minnetonka, maybe? Or a buckskin teddy?"

Eddie's grin faded away. "Actually, I almost got you this picture book on Sapphic erotica, but I figured you already knew all the positions." He passed it over.

She took it in hand. It seemed a bit heavy for footwear. "Just as well, I'm sure the pages would have been smudged and sticky by the time I got it." She paused with one finger under the wrapping paper. "Eddie. You know I was joking, don't you?"

"Sure. So was I. open it."

Buried inside a nest of packing material lay a small pot, about the size of two coffee mugs. She took it in both hands, dropping the box to the floor. "_Eddie._" It was a sort of taupe in color, with a lustrous glaze. She was certain it was the work of someone from San Carlos. She turned it over and saw the reservation seal: cattle skull in the foreground, symbolizing the wasteland the place had been when the People had been settled there; verdant green and blue lake in the middle, showing the oasis they'd made of it over decades; mountain rising to heaven in the background, symbolizing high purpose and hope for the future.

"I found it in this Native American store. Most of the stock was junk, but I recognized the mark on the bottom of this one. It matched a tribal logo I saw on a website Kat was on once."

"Exactly right," she said. "Thank you." She looked at the table. Two gifts remained: a package about the size and shape of a watch box, and one almost large enough to hold a coat.

"Here." Caitlin held out an envelope. Sarah took it, expecting a birthday card. It was, but inside she found a gift card to a nearby mall. She stared at it for a moment. _A __gift__ card?_ Inside the birthday card was written: _I'm sorry. I looked for days. Nothing seemed right._

"Thank you." She tucked it into her purse, pushing down an empty feeling. "Maybe, we can go together when I use it."

"The small one is from Rick." Anna lifted an eyebrow. "I have no idea how he found out it was your birthday. He said it's something every girl like you should have. And that you should open it when you're alone."

Caitlin and Roxanne traded glances. Eddie gave an appreciative little moan. Bobby looked put out.

"Mr. Lynch is gone again, I'm afraid," the little robot went on. "I'm sure he'll bring something back for you. This one is from me." She hefted it and offered it to her with both hands.

Sarah removed the wrappings from the heavy package, revealing a fancy cardboard gift box. She removed the lid. Inside lay a large coffee-table book. Its cover featured a Native American in the sort of getup one only saw at festivals. The title was _The Chiricahua Apache, from the Athabascan Migration to Reservation Life. _She ruffled the pages, opening it just enough to feel the heavy, glossy paper holding the promise of many illustrations. She looked at the inside title page for the author's name, and found what she'd expected: _Laura Penscott, Ph.D., Professor of Native American Studies at the University of Arizona; and Malcolm C. Card, Ph.D., Professor of Native American Studies_ _at Wilford College, Maryland. _Pictures accompanied the names. _A book on Apache culture and history, written by a pair of college professors, white academics. A sex manual written by eunuchs._ "Thank you. I don't think it will fit on my bookshelf, but I'll find someplace." She gathered up the gifts and turned towards her room. "Let me just put this all away, and I'll be right back."

"Hey," Eddie said, "Don't forget the cake. Anna made it."

"Perhaps we should wait on that," she said without slowing. "Dinner is only an hour away."

In her room, she turned the privacy lock. She dropped the book on one of the beds, the one she didn't sleep in, the one that would be her sister's if Sarah was still at home and sharing a room. She carefully placed the pot on her bookshelf and the jewelry box in her top dresser drawer. She sighed. Aside from the silly cake ceremony, which she didn't want, her seventeenth birthday was over.

_At home, Mother would have been cooking for two days. Grandmother would have made the cake, with plenty of help from Rachel and Beth. Father would have taken the day off work to clean and decorate and just to spend time with me. Everywhere I went on the rez, people would smile and wish me a happy birthday, even the __bachos__ who look at me with only one thing on their minds the rest of the year. So many people would have come to dinner, they'd have had to eat on the porch. The party would have spilled out onto the front lawn and into the woods behind the house and continued past sundown by the light of the rising moon, just four days from full, and a campfire in the back yard. Not many gifts, but music and jokes and games, and a sense of belonging and being cherished. A better gift than you can wrap._

She sighed again and looked at the last package, the one from Rick McCall, the neighborhood security goon with a case of wandering hands. She picked it up, tore off the wrapping paper, and opened the plain white box.

Rick's gift was a purse-sized can of Mace.

Friday April 2 2004

The back of the refuse truck whined as it compacted another canful of trash. George watched the big ram come down, smiling to himself at the haul he'd already made today from his route.

He'd been running a garbage truck for seventeen years, and he'd ceased to be amazed at the things people threw away, especially rich people. He wasn't too proud to collect the castoff clothing and housewares from the fancy neighborhoods he serviced. Some of it would go to a local charity, some would make him a little cash on Ebay, and some he would keep. The cab of his truck presently contained, among other items: a fancy stainless-steel countertop convection oven, easily worth a couple hundred dollars new, with a broken knob that could probably be replaced at an appliance-parts store for a couple of bucks; an assortment of dress and casual shoes his size, including a pair of crocodile cowboy boots, from the recently divorced woman on Park Row; and a beautiful crystal decanter set just rescued from the house he was presently servicing, the Sylvestri residence. The lady of the house had apparently dropped a glass, and likely used the mishap as an excuse to purchase a different set. George had no problem with owning a lead-crystal decanter set with seven glasses. He thought of his activities as a service to his clients, saving them from the folly of waste.

He wished it was as easy to save them from the folly of indiscretion. It was truly frightening, the things you could learn about a person just from emptying his garbage. George was no dumpster diver, but he couldn't help noticing how many people still tossed bank and credit card statements without shredding them, as well as doctor bills, store receipts, and other personal paperwork that arrived in the mail and found its way back to the curb in a can. Add to that the empty prescription bottles, booze and food containers, and other packaging that showed what a person bought or used, and an opportunist could get a very good feel for a client's habits, vices, and problems. One would think that people would put all their trash in opaque bags, at least, but many didn't. A week's worth of their history was accessible to any stranger with bad intent every Friday morning at the lift of a lid.

George got in his truck and rolled forward to the next house, his smile widening. Not because he expected a bonanza sitting beside the cans at _this_ place; the owner, Mr. Lynch, never bought anything that broke, it seemed, or tired of what he'd bought. Partly it was because the refuse in the black bags inside the can was always crushed, broken, and thoroughly chopped up; he could tell by the loose way they hit the hopper of the truck. But mostly it was because of the regular visits he got from the little housekeeper while he worked.

Annie was standing at the mailbox, smiling like sunshine and giving a little wave as he approached. He brought the truck to a stop and dismounted. "Hey, little girl, how ya doin?"

"Got a song in my heart, George, same as always." She had one hand behind her back.

He grinned at the little pixie. He was pretty sure her real reason for being at the curb when he arrived was to make sure no one touched the trash before it was safely in his hopper, but she had a way of lighting a fellow up just by being there, whatever the reason. He noted that the cans had been set at the curb with the handles positioned for an easy grab. He tugged at the first one, testing the weight. "You should get the boss to spring for a couple cans with wheels, kid. I don't know how you get these out here sometimes." He popped the lid and dumped the contents into the hopper."

"Oh, I manage." The hand behind her back came out with a small container. "Cookie? Homemade."

"I couldn't touch food with these hands."

"Hmf." She popped the lid, pulled out a chocolate-chip cookie, and brought it to his face. "Open."

He grinned, opened his mouth, and she shoved it partway in. he bit off about half, chewed, swallowed. "I see why he keeps you. You know how to treat a man right."

She giggled at that, giving him a warm glow. If Annie Devereaux had been an orphan, and as young as she seemed, he'd have adopted her on the spot. She fed him the rest of the cookie. "George, are you the one spreading rumors about me and Mr. Lynch?"

"Not a chance. And if he gets fresh, you let me know, and I'll straighten him out." He popped the lid on the second can and frowned in surprise. "What's this?" He reached in and removed a large gift box with something heavy inside. He lifted the lid to reveal a large book with an Indian chief on the front. "This can't have got in the trash on purpose."

The good humor was gone from Annie's face. In fact, for a moment, everything was gone from it: a mask dropped over her features – _or maybe_, he thought uneasily, _the mask slipped off?_ Then the smooth doll-face was gone, replaced by the features of a solemn young girl. "I'm sure it wasn't an accident. Do you want it?"

He leafed through the pages. He wasn't sure what the book was about, but it was a work of art, every glossy page illustrated with scenes from the Old West, mostly Indians. It was beautiful. "If you're sure-"

"Very sure." She grasped the handle of the empty can, as if she was suddenly impatient to be back in the house. "In fact, the sooner it's gone the better."

-0-

The Sirens' regular Friday jam session at Melanie's house ended early for once. Alex had warned them when she arrived that she wouldn't be staying, and she'd laid down her sticks and jumped in a car with Mel's brother Joel as soon as he pulled into the driveway. Joel was okay, Bobby thought as he drove home, but the two made an unlikely pair. Joel just seemed too into himself for an outgoing little blonde cheerleader type like Alex. But Kat was fond of him too – not in a boyfriend way, but there was _something _there. Bobby figured he must be the sort of guy chicks like to make a project of.

When he pulled the hatchback into the garage, he saw Eddie sitting on the steps of the connecting door with his head in his hands. When Bobby got out of the car and got close, the big ape looked up with a harried expression. "Insufficient research my chapped ass. McClintock Effect is real as AIDS."

"What _are_ you talking about?"

"You know. Get a bunch of chicks living in the same house, and after a while, their cycles all line up. Swear, every female in the house is PMS'ing – including Anna."

"Wait-"

"I know, I know. Maybe they're sending out radio signals along with the hormones, who knows? But you do not. Want. To go in there. Better to pass the Gates of Moria."

Bobby scoffed and reached for the knob. He turned it and pushed the door open three inches. It jumped back towards him as something crashed against the other side and shattered, scattering bits of porcelain over the hall rug. He pulled it shut quickly.

Eddie raised his eyebrows. "Let's just hope it was something from the kitchen and not the T'ang Dynasty."

The door eased partway open, and Eddie sprang off the step. Anna slipped through the opening and closed the door behind her. She handed Bobby a roll of bills and a sheet of paper, her manner all business. "Get back in the car, Bobby. Take Eddie with you. Driving directions are on the paper. Buy food and camping gear for three on the way."

"Three?" He looked down at the roll, which must be at least a couple grand. "And what about curfew?"

"These are Mr. Lynch's instructions, not mine. I called and explained the situation. He'll be joining you. It's not safe to be a male in this house right now."

Eddie brushed the seat of his pants. "Knew it. They're all ragging, aren't they?"

The little housekeeper turned to Eddie with cool eyes. "That's really none of your business, Eddie."

"Well, excuse _me_. I'm getting evicted for the weekend because of it. I think that might make it a little bit my business."

Anna's gaze held steady. "Perhaps it would explain Roxanne's unreasoned impulse to search your room, which was rude, especially since you share it with Bobby. But it doesn't explain the box of condoms she found in your nightstand. The part_-empty_ box of condoms."

"Hey, there's only two missing, and they're both in my wallet." Eddie turned to him with pleading eyes. "_Tell_ her, dude. _Every_ guy carries rubbers in his wallet. You know, for emergencies."

She crossed her arms. "'Emergencies'. I'm afraid my imagination fails me. Unless you're anticipating a sudden need to stir a quart of paint with your finger."

From inside the house, he heard the raised voices of the other three girls, apparently arguing. He couldn't make out any words, but Roxy's speech was fast and high-pitched, Sarah's terse, and Kat's disturbingly like growling. Anna deliberately looked back at the door, then returned her eagle stare to Eddie. "She knows you're out here. Caitlin and Sarah are keeping her in check and trying to calm her down, but their hearts aren't really in it. You should go. Now."

They turned for the car. Anna said, "Wait." She pecked Eddie on the forehead.

"What was that for?"

"It's your first night away from home. I don't want you to think… well, I'm not sure. Be careful, and come back Sunday. Everything will work out." She turned to Bobby. "Are you okay with this?"

He shrugged. "It'll be nice to get out of the house, maybe."

"Try to get along with your father. Whatever issues lie between you, he has nothing but good intentions for you." She wrapped arms around him. Then she paused, and drew closer, pressing her cheek to his chest. Her eyes closed.

Bobby looked down. "Anna? What are you doing?"

She didn't move. "Experimenting." Finally, she drew back. "Sometimes touching people induces a glitch in my human-analog subroutines. I still haven't traced it."

"Oh?"

She nodded. "My heartbeat acts up. I'll figure it out eventually."


	11. Pick a Side

Friday April 2 2004

Santa Monica California

"Well?" Alex asked. "What do you think?"

"It's different. Nice," Joel added uncertainly, with an eye on a gull circling his head.

Joel had never been to Santa Monica Pier, and found it was rather different than his preconceptions. He'd expected the Pier to be some sort of raised boardwalk running along the beach, lined with touristy shops and carny amusements. Instead, they'd walked down Colorado Boulevard, a street that ran from the city center towards the ocean, until the pavement had changed from asphalt to wooden planks, and he suddenly realized that the ground had fallen away beneath the road and they were high above the beach.

The Pier was a mall-sized structure jutting out into the Pacific on huge supports that lifted it twenty feet above the water. It was a tourist trap, to be sure, with restaurants and souvenir shops and even a miniature amusement park with a roller coaster and Ferris wheel, both of which Alex had insisted they ride. At the top of the wheel's circle, as their windswept car had paused high above the beach, she'd pulled him to her for a quick kiss and grinned at him.

They'd played skeeball in one of several arcades, sampled food from half a dozen little joints lining one side of the narrow wooden street, and admired the view over the rail as they'd moved out towards its end and the scenery changed from cityscape to broad beach to open water. They'd window-shopped the brightly-colored storefronts and tried on hats and sunglasses at the peddlers' carts situated all along the pedestrian walk. They'd shared some exotic sugary drink at a bar near the end of the pier, and tromped up the stairs to its roof for an elevated view of the scenery. Now they were back on the main level, looking over the rail at the beach and the mountains to the north.

Alex smiled up at him. "But are you liking it?"

He shrugged. "Yeah. I am." Not sure what he was trying to say, he added, "I wouldn't be, if I was alone."

Her smile changed somehow, in a way he couldn't figure. "Is that your idea of sweet talk, Joel? I mean, are you just out of practice, or do you really suck that bad at talking to girls?"

Feeling on-the-spot, he studied his companion while he tried to think up a smart answer. But staring at Alex wasn't bringing any intelligent thoughts to mind. The wind had picked up as they'd walked out over the water, and was making her hair float gently away from her head like a silk banner. It was also raising goosebumps on her bare shoulders and upper arms. He resolutely kept his eyes above her collarbones. "I'm just saying. I don't do this kind of stuff very often. Ever, actually. I never would have come here by myself. I wouldn't even have thought of it." He turned and looked out over the rail. "And if I'd ended up here by myself for some reason, all I'd have thought about was getting home. It may not seem like it, but I'm having fun. But only because you're here with me."

The streetlights lining the pier began to flick on. "No sunset," Alex said. "Too overcast." She shivered.

This would have been a good time to play gallant and throw his coat around her, Joel thought, only he didn't have one. Instead, he stood behind her, blocking the wind as they looked out over the rail. "Getting cold. Ready to go back?"

"Not yet." She reached behind her, grasped his hand, and pulled his arm around her, bringing them close. She held his forearm against her abdomen, and he decided she wasn't cold after all, at least not anyplace they were touching. Neither was he. She looked out over the water. "Joel, why did you ask me out that first time? I mean, we've known each other for two years. Why now?"

He felt his ears get a little warmer. "Uh, Kat sort of talked me into it." That was all he was going to say about that, he decided. He wasn't about to tell Alex he'd asked her out because he'd lost a bet with his lab partner, and he _sure_ wasn't going to tell her the wager he'd demanded of Kat.

"Hm." Alex reached back for his other hand and wrapped it around her as well. "And to think, I didn't like her when I first met her."

"What? Why-" He stopped. "You know, I didn't either."

She scoffed. Then she gently pushed his hand upward until his thumb was brushing the underside of her breast.

He quit breathing.

"I'm not used to being the aggressor. It's a switch." She pushed his hand up a little higher until he was cupping her through two thin layers of fabric. "I'm not a dumbass schoolgirl with a crush, Joel. You're self-centered and impatient, and I know as soon as you graduate you'll be gone without a backward glance. It doesn't matter. Well, it does, but…I liked you since I met you. It's not just your looks. You're easy on the eyes, but good-looking guys hit on me all the time. And it's sure not your charm. I don't know what it is. It's like, for once, I'm not sure what a guy wants from me. You're just so different." She stroked the back of his hand, and his breathing resumed, rather more roughly than before. "I'm babbling. Maybe I _am_ a dumbass schoolgirl with a crush." She stepped back from the rail, pushing him back, and he let go of her. But she snatched at his hand and tugged him back down the pier towards shore. "But if you really think your parents are expecting you home tonight, you're dumber than a box of rocks."

Los Terrentos California

Eddie slumped in the passenger seat, watching the scenery roll by. "Giselle or Adriana?"

Bobby glanced at the directions and took an off-ramp, leaving the interstate for a broad-shouldered two-lane. "Adriana."

"You always go for the dark ones. Angelina or Jessica?"

"Angelina."

"And you like em strange and edgy. Kate or Milla?"

"Hm. Milla."

"Love her eyes. Liv or Jennifer?"

"Liv. Do I get a turn?"

"When I'm behind the wheel. I'll take over at the next gas stop."

"Bro, from here the park's a straight shot down 79, less than ten miles away. Talk about a scenic route."

Anna's directions had included about twenty turns. Their route had pointed them in every direction of the compass, and had taken them through suburbs and larger towns, past Indian reservations, along mountain ridges and river valleys, all in the space of an hour. Eddie was certain they'd crossed I-8 at least twice. "Well, it was kinda scenic, wasn't it?"

"We're not threading this maze because it's picturesque. My dad's always got a practical reason for everything. Maybe he wants to make sure he gets there ahead of us."

"Fine by me. He can set up."

"Bro, we've got the camping gear."

"Uh, right." Eddie drained his can of Rockstar. "Okay. Lori or Alex?"

"Hey. Nobody we know." A gas station appeared, and Bobby pulled under the canopy. "Grab some grub while I fill the tank. Don't go junk-food crazy just cuz we're out of the house for a couple days."

Eddie popped the door. "Might be our last chance before we're old enough to vote, dude. Swear, Anna can smell a Twinkie on your breath when you come home from school."

Eddie wandered the aisles, picking up hand-food items and examining them. It was pretty hard to find any nutrition; even the dogs on the roller grill and the burgers and pizza slices in the warming cabinet looked suspicious now. _Dang it. A year ago, I would have been filling sacks with this stuff. Anna's got me looking at it like it's all made from refinery sludge._ He finally selected some protein and granola bars and headed for the coolers in the back of the store.

On the way, he passed the magazine rack, and slowed. A couple of the girls on the covers of the skin mags looked especially tasty. One of them was a sloe-eyed Latina who kind of resembled Sarah. He thought about picking it up – for Bobby, of course – and decided against. That didn't stop him from leafing through it, though. After his eyes had had their fill, he put it back with a sigh. It was always the same. The only thing any of these models had on the babes he shared a roof with was that he could stare at them as much as he wanted without fear of assault.

And of course, like he'd told Anna, none of them had Rox's eyes.

"Hey!" The voice came from the front of the store, probably the girl at the register. "Asshole!"

Eddie was sure she wasn't talking to him - well, fairly sure – so he hustled that way, and was just in time to see her glaring at the glass door as the closer seated it into the jamb with a soft creak. Outside, a powerful engine growled to life. "What's going on?"

"Shoplifter." The sound of tires squealing on pavement accompanied her statement, and a beat-up old Camaro whipped past their view as it gained the road. "Jerk's been in about three times this week to clear out the snack aisle. Once, he raided the beer cooler and ran out with a couple of twelve-packs. I hear he hits stores all up and down the highway."

"Get the license number?"

She shook her head. "Don't know where he gets them, but he never uses the same car more than twice. And he's got a rag over the plate when he shows up. Just wheels up to the door and walks in. He raids the shelves, stuffs his pockets, and he's out again. Ten seconds, tops. There's no point calling the cops, he's always long gone when they get here. Lots of dirt turnoffs and trails on this stretch of road." Her jaw clenched. "One of the girls works morning shift tried to stop him leaving. He pushed her into a display case. Eleven stitches."

"Ought to keep a Louisville Slugger under the counter."

She shook her head. "Owner's too worried about liability. If it was up to me, I'd have a shotgun loaded with rock salt."

On the way back out, he paused at the door, took a deep breath, and called Rox's cellphone.

It picked up on the second ring. "_Hello, Eddie._" Sarah's voice.

"Uh, where's Rox?"

"_Right here by the pool. But she doesn't want to come to the phone right now._"

So she had one of her girlfriends screening her calls. Not good. Giving her phone to Sarah to run call interference was the worst. Kat or Anna might be talked into putting her on, but not Miss All-Men-Are-Basically-Worthless Rainmaker. Eddie hadn't expected Rox to be cooled down, but this move was deeply troubling. "So, when would be a good time to call back?"

A long pause while Rox and Sarah talked it over in low voices, probably from side-by-side lounge chairs. He heard the _ka-thunkadunk _of the pool's springboard, followed by a huge splash and a gratifying squeal from both girls. "_Sorry,_" he heard Kat call out.

He waited. He watched Bobby hang up the hose and look his way. Eddie shrugged and waited some more with the phone pressed to his ear.

Sarah finally came back. "_I can't say. Roxanne says she may text you later._"

Eddie clenched his teeth. He hated texting. They all did, since Darwin, when their only contact with the outside world had been "emails" from their families that had turned out to be fabrications scripted by strangers. Given a choice, they all talked face-to-face, or at least voice-to-voice. By offering him a text, Rox was delivering another slap in the face, as well as gauging his desperation. "In that case, I may just switch the phone off. Save the battery. See ya, Sarah." He disconnected.

Saturday April 3 2004

IO Eastern HQ

MacLean Virginia

Alicia Turner stopped halfway up the long thirty-degree incline and bent over, hands on bare knees, trying to catch her breath and fight down the urge to puke. She'd thought she was in good shape for a forty-one-year-old woman, but a weekly routine consisting of ten miles of jogging and nine hours in the gym was no preparation for _this_.

She and her companion were on the first third of IO's physical training course, a ten-mile trail that wound through the steep wooded hills southwest of the Black Tower, the property's main administration building. The broad path, composed by turns of hard-packed dirt, sand, mud, and large loose stones that could snap the ankle of an unwary runner, led up and down hills, across ravines, and through swift streams that left Alicia's soaked running shoes feeling like they weighed twenty pounds each. She stared at the steam rising off her bare thighs and the dark stains down the front of her sweatshirt and knew absolutely that she'd fall dead before completing the course.

"Are you okay?" The other woman stood in the middle of the path about twenty yards up the hill, where she'd stopped and turned when she'd noticed Alicia wasn't following her anymore. Alicia noted sourly that her companion wasn't even breathing hard; no doubt the woman could have paced her the last three miles running backwards.

Alicia panted and swallowed, trying to gather enough breath to speak. She shook her head to clear the wet hair from her stinging eyes and stared up at the woman she'd come to interview. Some of the data in her file, Alicia decided, were damned misleading. Her awe-inspiring fitness and muscle tone made her look a good deal younger than thirty. Her height was recorded as five-ten, but her physical presence made her seem larger, especially in boots, camo pants, and a sleeveless green undershirt. The file listed her as blue/blonde, but it didn't mention the perfectly sculpted eyebrows, or the yellow-white mop's determination to curl everywhere it was more than six inches long; unbound, Alicia thought, it would tumble around her face and over her shoulders in ringlets. The scale had been less than forthright about her as well: the girl had a recorded weight of one fifty-two, but, aside from the subcutaneous layer that softens the definition of most women's muscles, she wasn't carrying an ounce of fat. Nor did she look musclebound. She just looked like a woman capable of handling any physical demand that might be made of a very fit man.

_Christie_ _Blaze_, Alicia thought. _Sounds like a name for a porn star. Got the looks for it, too. No_, she amended, _not with those shoulders. More of an action-adventure heroine, the kind who can kick a man's butt and then screw him blind._ She offered the girl a limp wave. "I'm fine," she wheezed. "Go on, don't want to break your routine."

"Already did. I stopped." The young Amazon tramped down the slope towards her; Alicia grew sick again at the thought of running the previous three miles in heavy ankle-height field boots. "Never turn in a decent time on the obstacle course if I'm not limbered up."

Christie's remark brought fresh humiliation to the older woman. Alicia knew that, a mile further down the trail, the course's natural obstacles were reinforced with man-made ones of timber, concrete, and steel, a sort of freerunning course where the Razors and X-Teams practiced their formidable skills at conquering terrain and insertion into impossible places. _For me, the last three miles were a life-threatening experience; for her, they were a warmup._ "Go on," Alicia said, still bent and breathing heavily. "I'll catch up with you at the Tower."

"Don't think so. Not even if you turn around and go back." Christie extended a hand and beckoned. "Come on. You'll recover faster if you walk. There's a shortcut back for observers and VIPs at the start of the obstacle course. It'll cut a mile off the return trip, and it's easier going besides."

Alicia coughed, wiped her face on her sleeve, and trekked up the long slope with Christie. At the crest, the girl said, "You look better. Endorphins kick in?"

"Think so," Alicia replied, as they started down the other side. Her near-death feeling had been replaced by one of lightness and well-being. She knew from experience the sensation was illusory and short-lived, but she now felt as if she could run all day.

"Careful. Once they drop you, you'll have trouble getting one foot in front of the other." The blonde Amazon scanned the wooded decline as if expecting an ambush at any moment. A twenty-story black-glass building was visible through the trees: the Black Tower, IO's original HQ, which was emptying rapidly as Ivana moved the organization's administration to the new headquarters in Boulder. "So. You said you're from PsyOps? Something turn up in the debrief?"

Christie was recently returned from an extended undercover assignment, a scouting trip of sorts, gathering boots-on-ground intel on several likely targets in Europe. Nominally part of X-Team Number Two – the only female in the entire Expeditionary Force, though there were quite a few in the Razors – her place on the roster was supernumerary, and she seldom dropped with her team. She'd shown a talent for covert ops and independent action that John Lynch had picked up on and developed early in her career.

Alicia raised her eyes from her footing, risking a fall to study the girl's reaction. "Actually, I'm not here about your last mission. I'd like to discuss John Lynch with you."

The change that came over Christie was as abrupt as the drawing of a curtain. Her face blanked, and the polite friendliness disappeared from her voice. "Okay then. Miss Turner, I'm sure you miss your office by now, so why don't I save you a little time? I'm not in contact with him, and I don't know where he is. He didn't breathe a word to me. I didn't have a frickin clue." She booted a pebble down the path. "And yes, I suppose that's why he dumped me a year ago. So I wouldn't be implicated, the noble bastard."

"None of that comes as a surprise," Alicia said quietly. "This isn't an interrogation, Miss Blaze. Have you been brought up to speed on what happened?" Christie had been 'out of the office' for seven months; when she'd left, John Lynch had still been Director of Operations. Alicia suspected that the assignment taking her far from the scandal had been Jack's idea as well.

"Well, I've heard the official version." The big blonde looked down at her feet as she skidded slightly in the gravel. "But it's bullshit."

Alicia blinked, taken back. Like most of IO's employees and staff, Christie Blaze wasn't cleared for Genesis. There were plenty of people at IO who were privately skeptical of the 'official' story of Jack Lynch's deception, but very few would ever be willing to express such an opinion to a stranger from the Shop. "You sound very sure."

"Jack didn't bug out with the contingency fund. He's no embezzler."

Alicia shrugged. "Jack's gone. So's the money. A lot of money. One point two billion dollars."

"I can think of twenty ways to explain that without half trying. Starting with some sticky-fingered weasel using Jack's disappearance as a golden opportunity."

Alicia slowed as the downslope steepened. "You have a name to go with that accusation?"

"No. I just know he didn't leave IO over money. Hell, he didn't spend what he was already making. His work was his life. He wouldn't throw that away to add a few zeroes to the end of his bank balance."

"Care to speculate why he _did _do it, then?"

The big blonde gazed at Alicia as if she was sighting on her. "What's PsyOps' interest?"

_None, actually._ "Trying to guess his motives and deduce his plans. Determine whether he's a continuing threat to the organization." She added, "If you don't want to talk about it, I understand."

"Or think you do." Christie stopped and turned to face the older woman, looking her over in a new way. "Did you know him?"

_Meaning, did I sleep with him too? _"Rather well. I was his grief counselor after his wife died." _And before that, when he was wondering if he was still human after acquiring his powers._

"Oh." She seemed to come to a decision. "If he'd told me, and asked me to go with him, I might have. Does that earn me a place on a list somewhere?"

Alicia shook her head. "None that I'm writing. But if he's intending mischief, it's in everyone's best interest for IO to know, and know why. Why do you think he left?"

The girl turned back down the trail. A tall wooden wall, the first of the course's man-made obstacles, was just visible around a bend in the path. "My guess is, he wasn't happy with the current leadership."

"I assume you're not talking about Mr. Santini." Jack Lynch and Benito Santini had been colleagues and friends for almost thirty years; Santini had been Jack's boss when he'd first been recruited to IO. When the Shop had been reorganized in the late Nineties and IO's direct-action troops had been given their own Directorate, Santini had abdicated the top spot after a very short time and recommended Jack instead. After Jack's defection, Santini had assumed the vacated title, but complained loudly and bitterly about 'wasting his time' dealing with IO's top management. Instead of moving to the new Boulder headquarters, he'd stayed put in the Black Tower and had sent his deputy, Francis Colby, a young up-and-comer and a former protégé of Jack's.

Christie resumed her downslope walk. "No."

"He seconded Ms. Baiul's appointment to Chief Director."

"It was either that or fight her for the job. If he'd done that, win or lose, he'd have had to sleep with one eye open the rest of his life." Her regular stride paused half a second. "Sorry. Speaking out of turn. Sometimes we field grunts forget our company manners."

_Sure. Just your average gun-toting gorilla. With a degree in European Studies from William and Mary._ Alicia reached for the girl's forearm. When Christie stopped and looked back, they locked eyes. "Christie. Nothing you say to me in private will get you in trouble." _But if you take that statement at face value by a stranger from Headquarters, Jack was very smart to do what he did with you. Even though in this case it's true._

But the X-Trooper's survival instinct had re-asserted itself, apparently. "I don't know anything, really. I've wracked my brain for a reason he might have done it, and I come up with nothing. I guess I never really knew him after all."

Alicia nodded. "Well, if anything comes to mind…"

"I'll call you. Sure." Alicia noted that Christie didn't ask for her number. At the bottom of the slope, the girl pointed to a fork in the path. "There's your shortcut. Think I'll tackle the O-course anyway, just for practice. Nice talking to you." She jogged on down the path to the timber barricade, jumped up to grab the top, flowed over it like wind-blown smoke, and disappeared.

Alicia started down the fresh trail. As promised, it was smooth and sure and gently graded, and it led almost straight back to the Tower. That was good; she was suddenly very tired – either from her endorphins metabolizing or depression from disappointment, she wasn't sure which. With her footing unchallenged, she was free to think, and began composing her report and recommendation. Said report would not be going to her boss's terminal at PsyOps, however; it would be verbal, face-to-face, and private, delivered to the Deputy Director of Operations, Frank Colby.

The report would be brief, and her recommendation clear: Christie Blaze, though a likely sympathizer, should not be recruited into the conspiracy to keep Jack and his young wards out of IO hands – a conspiracy which she believed presently consisted of her and Frank. Christie's position would give her little chance to help, and bringing her in would incur a serious risk with no discernible benefit. She was certainly being watched, even so far from Boulder in the heart of Santini's satrapy. No doubt the girl kept her thoughts close when on assignment, or she wouldn't be alive. But, back in the perceived security of MacLean, she was far too open for her own good. She'd share her guesses and opinions with people she trusted, and they'd share with people _they_ trusted, and eventually her words would reach the ears of Ivana Baiul. Alicia hoped things didn't go too badly for Jack's former lover when that happened, but she had little confidence.

13


	12. Gender Differences

Saturday April 3 2004  
Cuyamaca Rancho State Park, California

Eddie pulled the top of his sleeping bag down just enough to uncover his face. "Figures, I let you buy the camping gear, you'd get a mirror. You can't start your morning without spending half an hour in front of it."

Bobby gave his temple another lick with the handleless brush. "You saying I'm conceited or something?"

"Neh. It's the only time I see you look at one, really. But it beats me why you can't step out the door without every hair in place."

"How the world sees you's important, bro. Who gives respect to a guy who combs his hair with his fingers?"

"I comb my hair with my fingers."

"My point is made." Bobby turned slightly, examining the image in the tiny mirror hanging from the side wall of the tent. Bobby thought the guy in the mirror looked pretty good – not a chick magnet or anything, that _would_ be conceited; but you could tell at a glance that all was right with this guy's world. He looked at his haircut, and debated whether to grow it out a little more.

_We'll let your hair grow out for now_, a woman's voice whispered in the back of his mind. _I think you'll look positively edible with it down around your shoulders._

Not _too_ much longer, he decided.

"Hmph." Eddie rolled on his side and pulled the bag up to his eyebrows. "What time is it?"

He glanced at the watch Anna had given him. "Seven or so." Bobby had never gone camping, but it didn't seem too bad. The walls of the tent were glowing from the morning sun, the air was fresh and strangely scented, and he could hear birds in the nearby trees – way better than an alarm clock. A good way to start the day, he decided.

"Your dad show?"

"Don't know. Haven't been outside yet." And he was in no hurry. His usual feeling of being about to go on stage when he stepped out the bedroom door was subdued here. It gave him a warm and peaceful feeling to know the great outdoors was his at the lift of a zipper.

"That's another thing. Why'd you get two tents?"

He rubbed at his chin, and decided a day without a shave wouldn't hurt. "He likes to come and go without telling anybody. I figured I'd make it easy for him."

"Hmph," Eddie said again. "So, what's to eat?"

"Thought you were going back to sleep."

"I can't sleep with my stomach growling."

"We've got milk and cereal, I think."

"That's it? I didn't do anything to deserve this. Starving to death in the wilderness."

"You can see the car from the front door, bro. I think we backpacked all of fifty yards into the wilderness before we set up camp. There's a restaurant back the way we came, maybe ten miles." He smiled as he turned from the mirror. "I thought you camped when you were a kid. Scouts and all that."

"Yeah, well, Dad's idea of roughing it was leaving his laptop behind. And my scoutmaster was more about prepping us for badges than teaching us survival stuff. Besides, I didn't want to get too far from the car. I want more than a sheet of nylon between me and a hungry wildcat if I hear one." At Bobby's look, Eddie said, "You didn't read the sign? 'There may be mountain lions in this park. Be on alert. Although normally elusive, they have been known to attack without warning.' He unzipped the bag and threw it open. "So did you do the same thing with the zipper?"

"What thing with the zipper?"

"You know, like you do with the door."

Bobby frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"What, are you doing it in your sleep or something?" Eddie searched through his pack for his toothbrush, head down and hair falling into his eyes. "Every morning, as soon as you get out of bed, you go to the bedroom door and open it a crack and shut it again. Weirded me out at first. It was like you were checking to make sure it would open."

La Jolla California

"'Bootylicious'." Sarah's eyes were hidden behind her sunglasses, but Roxy saw her nose wrinkle in distaste. "They really said that."

"Among other things." Roxanne sat beside Sarah, both of them out on the pool deck in lounge chairs. They watched Kat churn up the pool swimming laps, the empty beach at the bottom of the little hill, and distant boats in the water beyond. The late-morning sun was peeking over the roof and shining down on the concrete, which was just beginning to warm up for the day: a perfect time to work on her tan. "Not a big deal. Really. They were watching her cross the Quad and started making comments before they saw me. It was harmless."

"It's disgusting. Talking about her derriere like it was a lollipop."

"More like a peach. It was just guy talk, Sarah. They do it all the time."

"I'm sure. In between lying about their batting averages and remarking what cold customers the girls in school are." Sarah squeezed a dollop of baby oil onto her arm and rubbed it in. "When will they realize they'd have better luck with women if they'd drop that ridiculous patter and the attitudes that go with it? Really, what girl in her right mind would feel flattered by that sort of attention?"

Roxy kept her silence. She'd often enjoyed just that sort of attention from boys before. But she'd been younger then, just experimenting with her sexuality, mostly with boys no older and just as inexperienced. And Mr. Lynch sort of shared Sarah's views on the subject, which left Roxanne feeling self-conscious about courting hoots and comments these days.

"And besides," Sarah went on, as she watched Kat climb the ladder out of the pool and head dripping for the springboard, "isn't that a term they use if a girl's bottom is a little bigger than average?"

"Well, that's Kat all over. You have to get close to realize, though. From ten steps away, everything fits together, you know?" She lifted her eyebrows. "Except for the rack. That wouldn't look natural on anybody."

Kat bounced on the end of the board, making it bend until it almost touched the surface of the water, then catapulted into the air. Roxy and Sarah both whipped their damp towels off the concrete to hold up in front of them as the big redhead hit the water with a huge splash that soaked the chairs and deck surrounding.

Kat's head broke surface at the other end of the pool. She saw Roxy and Sarah using their towels to wipe their chairs and the table between. "Sorry."

Roxy stated wringing out her towel. "That sounded a lot more sincere the first time, Sis. We got some passive-aggressive action going on here?"

Instead of answering, Kat climbed out and went to her own wet chair, a small distance from Roxy and Sarah's but likewise facing the pool and beach, and just as soaked. As she started twisting her dripping towel, she asked, "Where's the suntan oil?"

Sarah reached for the bottle of baby oil. Roxy said, "Whoa. We can't use that stuff. It's like, SPF negative. We'd fry." She produced her own bottle from under the chair and tossed it to her sister.

Sarah regarded the two of them with a little smile. "Melanin deficiency. What a trial that must be for the master race." Her arms and shoulders and legs were water-beaded like a car coming out of the wash with a fresh coat of wax, and looked as smooth as Anna's, only about six shades darker. Roxy watched her abs ripple slightly as she spread a little oil on her already-glistening thighs. "Want me to get your backs?"

"No, thanks," Kat said as she popped the top on Roxy's bottle.

"Sure? My hands are already oily."

"I'm going to lie on my back. I can get my own front." As she splurted an ounce of Coppertone on her belly, she said, "So. Anybody doing anything tonight?"

Roxy spoke up. "Hit a club, maybe?"

"Count me out," Sarah said, stretching out a foot to examine her recent pedi. "I'm not ready for a night of fending off passes."

_No_, Roxy thought, _you look like you've got other plans. A heavy date with that girl from the volleyball team, maybe._ "Well, I am. Kat? Wanna shake your groove thing?"

"I suppose," Kat said doubtfully. "I was thinking of the theater. The Rep is doing 'Kiss me, Kate.'"

"Gawd. Shoot me now." She had a thought. "What about your girlfriends from school? The three chicks in Bobby's band? Lori and Alex and…" Roxy gave Sarah a quick glance, just a movement of her eyes. "The one Bobby went out with."

"Melanie," Sarah said, rubbing baby oil between her breasts. "Melanie Richards."

"Yeah. Maybe they want to make it a night."

"I don't know about Lori and Melanie, but Alex is going to Mexico with her sister, remember?" Kat rubbed lotion into her upper arms, looking out to sea. "Wonder how her date with Joel went last night."

"Oh, yeah, right. Hey. There's an idea. Let's go check out TJ."

Kat shook her head. "I know Mr. Lynch said our IDs are solid, but I'm not sure I want to risk a border crossing for a pleasure trip. It seems a perfect place for IO to give photos of us to people it trusts." She leaned back, put on her shades, and shifted around on her lounge chair, trying to get comfortable with her heels hanging off the end.

Roxy sighed theatrically. "This is impossible. How could you be stuck for something to _do_ in a place like this?"

Sarah leaned back in her chair. "Sounds like you've been depending on Eddie too much to provide your entertainment."

"As if." Roxanne blew a strand of damp hair off her forehead. "Did I overreact, do you think?"

"Roxanne, do you really think every guy carries condoms in his wallet?"

"Well, that doesn't mean he was planning something."

"No, it just means he was one step closer to doing something impulsive and selfish. Do you think Bobby carries condoms in _his_ wallet?"

"Bobby's a bad example." She lowered her voice, even though the three of them were alone on the deck. "You know he's waiting for you to switch teams."

"Don't be ridiculous. I like him, but we're never going to be like that. I thought I made that clear at Darwin."

Roxy stretched, feeling the sun on her skin, and tried to decide whether to start a fight with the Apache Princess. "I don't know. You looked plenty close our last night at Darwin, before we ran."

"He was just desperate for somebody." Sarah made the tiniest motion of her head in Kat's direction: Roxy's big sister was still, face to the sky, and _might_ be sleeping. "And nobody else was stepping up to the plate."

"You were already in the bullpen, all warmed up. What about our first night here, when you came in from the pool in just a towel?"

"I was there first. I wanted a swim, and I didn't have a suit yet, that's all. I didn't know he'd be coming out. I wasn't waiting for him. I got out when he showed up."

"No, you came in when Anna went out to clean the pool. And you got dressed and went right back out again. And came _right_ back in, with smoke coming out your ears. Don't deny it."

Sarah shifted. "Of course I was upset. I thought I'd just caught Lynch's housekeeper seducing his teenage son. I wasn't _jealous, _for heaven's sake."

Kat said, startling them, "We could go to the beach."

Roxy stared at the strip of sand maybe fifty yards away. "Uh huh."

"Not there. I heard about this place just up the coast. It sounds wonderful. Not crowded, very secluded and hard to get to. You either have to wait for low tide and take a long walk around the rocks or make a steep descent down a cliff. Hang gliders use the top of it for a launch point. We could watch. The guy I talked to says it's the best beach around."

"He would," Sarah said dryly. "I'm sure he offered to take you there."

"Well, he offered to show me. He said it was a little hard to find. But I'm sure we could do it on our own, if we spent a little time on it."

"Black's Beach," Sarah said. "Maybe five miles north, between here and Torrey Pines. Just past the U of C. If you really want to go, we could be there in ten minutes. Drive past the main lot with the glider port to the next one. The start of path is clearly marked."

"You've been there?"

"I've thought about it, but no. But the person who invited me was a little more informative. Caitlin, it's a nude beach."

"Ewww." Roxy curled her lip.

"It's not what you think. Couples go there, but it's not a meat market. If you've ever wondered what it's like to swim in the surf naked, I'm sure you'd have a good time. But not with a guy you hardly know who comes with a headful of wrong ideas and a camera."

"Pass," Kat said, looking back up at the sky.

Anna appeared, dressed in her little white bikini, a load of towels over her arm. "Anybody hungry? Thirsty?" She draped a towel over the back of each of their chairs and picked up the wet ones. "If you're not going out, we could make tonight Fem Fare."

"No, thanks," Sarah said, swinging her legs off the lounger and rubbing oil off her skin with the fresh towel. "I'll be eating out." At Roxanne's scoff, she added, "Child."

"Anna," Roxy said, "What's with the suit? You going to clean the pool?"

"No, I did that yesterday." The little cyber eyed the surface of the water and the puddled deck. "Though I probably should top it off. I just thought that, if I'm going to be serving you girls out here all day, I'd stand out less if I'm properly attired." Her eyes swept out over the water in a way that made Roxy think of a radar dish. "The new landscaping should hide the pool from the rear by next year, if we're still here then."

"Where would we go? And why?"

"Oh, you never know." Her head stopped moving. "I've seen that boat before. Twenty-eight or thirty-foot, flying bridge, red striping. Four visible occupants, all male. Three hundred meters, ten degrees right of perpendicular to the beach, under power but keeping station relative to the shore."

"What boat?" Roxy sat up and stared out over the water. Sarah dropped her towel and looked too. Kat started to rise.

"Don't," Anna said. "They're too far for you to make out, and they're not doing anything suspicious. Two of them are watching with binoculars, though. They'd wonder why you're all looking their way." She started wringing towels, idly looking out over the water in another direction. "When it was out there yesterday, there were only two aboard. Now they're turning towards shore, headed our way."

The air felt too thick for Roxy to draw in. "What do we _do_?"

Anna quit fussing with the wet towels and looked at her. "Sweetie. If I thought they were dangerous, I wouldn't be _standing_ here. They're all college-age boys, possibly classmates of yours, though I hope not. They were motoring by a hundred meters offshore yesterday afternoon. When they approached the house, they suddenly throttled back and cruised by at a crawl. I'm quite sure they spotted Caitlin catching some after-school sunshine. We'll just have to see what they do next."

"Great," Roxy said, trying not to hide her relief – and to hold in the shakes. "Those horn dawgs from school find out where we live, we'll have to move. Won't we?"

Anna turned toward the house, towels in hand. "It seems likely, but not certain. I'm sure Mr. Lynch has considered this possibility. And when Mr. Lynch enters my probability computations, the margin of error goes way up. Let's see what happens when they reach shore."

About a minute later, the cabin cruiser slowed to a stop and dropped anchor a short distance offshore. Roxy imagined they thought they were being subtle parking across from Mrs. Sylvestri's. Two guys slid over the back railing into the waist-deep water, calling back and forth to the ones still in the boat and receiving a cooler and packages to carry to shore. It looked like they were planning to stay awhile.

The first wave of the invasion reached shore and began to set up in Mrs. Sylvestri's portion of the beach, then one of the boys pointed down the beach, as if there was some reason to prefer the patch of sand right in front of their pool. Again, Roxy thought, subtle. Roxy said, "Do you recognize any of them?"

"No," Sarah swung her legs back onto the lounge chair and put her hands behind her head. She lifted a knee to rest on the arm of the chair, tucking the foot under the opposite thigh. "But I know them, just the same."

"We could just go inside," Kat suggested.

Sarah said, "I'm not about to be chased indoors by a pack of strays. Just ignore them."

"They're setting up a volleyball net on our beach," Kat pointed out, throwing a towel over her front that only covered her from rack to navel. "They're making themselves awfully hard to ignore."

"Yeah." From behind her shades, Roxy watched the four laying out their gear, tamping in stakes and catching cold bottles tossed to them by the guy at the cooler with no more than an occasional glance their way._ What next? Bat the ball around for a while, then 'notice' us and invite us to join in? Kat's right. We should just go inside._ Then another voice intruded. _The blond one is kind of cute, and he keeps looking my way. What's the harm? Just sit here, keep enjoying the sun and the view, and let them do the same. It's no different from being at a club, is it? It's not like I'm cheating on anybody._

_No. If we give them the slightest encouragement, there will be a dozen of them here tomorrow, that's the harm. Our privacy will evaporate. And every stranger who knows we're here will bring IO a little closer._ "Guys, we need to do something."

Anna appeared with a tray of iced glasses full of lemonade. "I think something is about to happen. I hear the patrol cruiser at the mailbox."

Sure enough, Rick appeared on the beach from between the Lynch and Sylvestri properties, in uniform and looking stern, and walked up on the boys. Roxy couldn't make out what he was saying, but the visitors glanced at each other uncertainly. Then one apparently appointed himself spokesman, and he and Rick started exchanging words. The boy gestured at the boat and their camp,then swept an arm along the length of the beach, his manner getting more confident as he talked. Rick's scowl got deeper and he folded his arms. The other three boys traded smiles. None of them looked towards the beach house.

"Anna," Kat said. "Rick can't make them leave, can he?"

"No." She set the glasses beside each of their chairs. Roxy noticed that she'd brought out a fourth drink, which the little cyber touched to her lips as she looked out over the discussion on the sand. "The beach is public land. As long as they don't break any laws, there's not much he can do."

Rox said, "Maybe we could put a hole in their boat or something."

"No." Anna sipped again, eyes traveling down the beach. "Wait."

Rick looked over the spokesman's shoulder and stiffened. He said a few words to the boy, cutting him off, and abruptly turned and walked back the way he'd come. The boys' puzzled looks changed to smiles when they realized they'd been left in possession of the beach. One of them grinned up at the house.

"They ran him off?" Roxy was outraged. It seemed so unlike the big protective man to leave them to these wolfish strangers.

"I'm sure he just thought it best not to be a witness to whatever comes next," Anna said, smiling behind her glass.

Two men came trudging up the beach from the opposite direction. They were wearing dark suits, their ties fluttering in the breeze, and looked thoroughly pissed at being there. The flap of one man's jacket lifted to reveal the butt of a gun.

Anna said, "Russo and Pete. I don't think Mr. Ricci likes rowdy strangers on the beach either."

The two men stopped a short distance from the volleyballers. They didn't offer any conversation, and the single attempt on the part of the spokesman to address them went unanswered. They just stood and watched, while the boys tried to ignore them and play ball. The game faltered when one of the men pulled a small notebook and pen from his front pocket and wrote down the registration number on the boat's bow.

Ten minutes later, the boys began packing up their gear, rolling up the net and carrying the cooler towards the water. The first of them was up to his knees when one of the _Mafiosi_ whistled, stopping them in their tracks. The man pointed to an empty water bottle half-buried in the sand. One of the boys returned to pick it up, and they all waded out to the boat. The same man gave the boat a two-finger wave as its twin engines fired up and it moved off, while the other kicked sand into the indentations where the net's stakes had been pulled up. Then he looked up at the beach house and the girls watching, and touched a finger to his brow as they turned back towards the Ricci compound.

"I think I may need to pick up an Italian cookbook," Anna said, giving the men a little wave and a smile. Then she turned the other way, smiling towards the Sylvestri house even though nobody was visible. "And bake some doggy treats."

Los Coyotes Indian Reservation

Lynch adjusted the shoulder straps of his daypack as he looked up the mountainside at the sun just peeking over the crest high above, even though it was nearly noon. He'd taken the car as far as he could into the hills, following a familiar route that brought memories by turns pleasant and painful. He'd left it beside the dirt road and struck out on foot, headed east and up. Two more hours of walking had brought him to this spot, a narrow sheltered saddle, cool and green and isolated.

He found the remains of one of his old campsites and sat in the shade of a tree, sipping bottled water and waiting. He debated whether to build a fire, and decided against. The only person he wanted to find him here wouldn't need a beacon.

About the time the sun began to descend, he heard the buzz of a small gas engine somewhere in the distance, funneled to him by the saddle's walls: a dirt bike, he guessed, coming up the other side of the ridge to the east and getting closer. He watched the stand of trees crowning the hilly ground in that direction. His guess was confirmed when he saw the source of the noise burst out of the trees and leap a small hump in the trail. The rider was dressed in jeans and a leather jacket that didn't fully hide the bob of her breasts when the bike grounded. The helmet hid her features, but Lynch was sure of the rider's identity from the devil-may-care riding style, even before he saw the light blonde hair peeking out from under.

He raised a hand, and the cycle slowed to walking speed and came putting up to a stop a few feet from him. The engine shut off. The rider unbuckled her helmet, placed a hand on either side, and lifted. Yellow-white curls tumbled onto her shoulders as it came free.

"Christie," Jack said.

Christie Blaze regarded him carefully. She didn't get off the bike or offer her hand. "Hello, Jack."

He glanced around, but they were alone, without even an aircraft in the sky. He was ashamed of the suspicion in the back of his mind, but she was still working for the Shop, after all, and the two of them hadn't parted on good terms. "How did you know I was here?"

She tucked the helmet between ribs and elbow. "I didn't. But I've been coming here every weekend I can. I thought if you were trying to get in touch, you'd be visiting our old haunts, and this is a good meeting spot. Secluded. It's why we picked it, after all."

_We picked it as a place to tryst without being spied on or interrupted._ He pushed away the memories of sharing a sleeping bag here with her under the stars, and wondered what might be going on in her head when she visited this spot looking for him. "How long have you been here?"

"Just got in, actually. I was at MacLean early this morning. Would have been here sooner, but I had an appointment with some woman in PsyOps who's asking questions about you."

_Alicia, I'd bet anything. She's looking for a way to get in touch. _"Well, what now?"

"I'm here to help. What do you want me to do?"

He relaxed a bit. "Find a reason to go to Boulder. Talk to Colby." He took out his pocket notebook and pencil, and jotted a time and address. "Keep a low profile. If you can't get past the flappers into his office, haunt the target range. He spends a lot of time there. Give him this."

She took the paper from his hand without touching him, folded it without looking at it, and tucked it into a pocket. "Kay. Anything else?" She toed out the bike's kickstart lever, as if ready to fire it up.

"Thank you, Christie." He leaned towards her. "I know-"

She turned her face away and put up a hand. "Don't. You lost your claim on these lips the morning you left me in Wiesbaden."

"If there'd been any other way-"

"I think we're way past the time for explanations. Then would have been _lots_ better than now."

He knew there was nothing he could say, but his mouth opened anyway. "I was trying to make it easier for you."

Her cheekbones colored. "We made _love_ the night before! How do you think _that_ made it easier for me? Not a hint it was coming, just a lover gone cold for no reason I could think of. And then you tell me on the way to the God-damned airport? Just a bald statement that we couldn't see each other any more, as you let me out of the car. You drove off and left me on the sidewalk, staring after you like an abandoned pet." She settled her helmet on her head and flipped up the face shield, and kept talking as she buckled the chin strap. "It was for the very _best_ of reasons, I'm sure. But you made the decision for both of us. You didn't treat me like a partner. So stick by it. I'll do everything I can for you, but there's no 'us' anymore, ever." She dropped her heel on the kickstarter and fired the engine up. "Unless I'm sent, I won't be coming back here. Goodbye, Jack." She flipped down the face shield with a quick bob of her head and spun the bike around, peppering Lynch's shins with dirt and tiny stones. She took off down the trail with the front wheel in the air, and was out of earshot before it touched down.

He watched her disappear among the trees. "Goodbye, Angel."

14


	13. Surprise Dates

Saturday April 3 2004  
Near Cuyamaca California

"_This_ is what I'm talking about." Eddie grinned behind his coffee cup. "Dude, you can pick the restaurant anytime."

Bobby lifted a forkful of scrambled eggs to his mouth without comment. For breakfast, he'd taken them back down the highway towards the Interstate and a truck stop they'd passed on the way in. The lot, almost filled with pickups and semis, had seemed to him a guarantee of good food and portions generous enough to satisfy his roomie's appetite.

The food was just what he'd expected. What he hadn't expected was the wait staff, no doubt another reason truckers filled every seat in the place: four smiling hotties in various flavors, wearing black silk tap shorts and tight quarter-sleeved shirts with deep scoop necklines and hems that ended a couple inches above the navel, shirts just big enough to cover their pushup bras. Eddie had bumped into a table on the way to their seats as one of the girls wiping down a booth very deliberately stood on tiptoe, rested a forearm on the table's surface, and bent horizontal with her butt in the air to reach the condiments at the far end instead of sliding into the booth.

Eddie stuffed a strip of bacon in his mouth and talked around it. "What do you think it'd take to get the waitress's number?"

"A miracle. Bro, each of these girls gets hit on a hundred times before lunch every day."

"Doesn't mean a thing. Look at the competition." He leaned forward. "She's looking this way."

"She's checking to see if we need warmups."

"I need a warmup. Maybe your old man won't show, and we'll each have our own tent. Remember, what happens in… what's the name of the place?"

"Cuyamaca Rancho State Park."

"…Stays there."

Bobby drained his cup. "You do remember how we got here in the first place, right?"

"I sure do." The banter in Eddie's voice drained away. "I'm already doing the time, why not the crime?"

Bobby lifted his eyebrows. "Because if she ever found out, it would be the end of life as you know it?"

Their waitress, a dark-blonde girl with a light tan and an unnaturally white smile, approached with a coffeepot. "Need a refill?" She said to Bobby, and leaned over unnecessarily far beside him to fill his mug, brushing his shoulder with her breast. From the other side of the table, Eddie goggled at the girl's display of cleavage. She straightened, still smiling, and turned to another customer.

Bobby sipped his brew. "Bet they make a fortune in tips." He dropped several bills on the table and stood. "I'm done. Meet me outside when you're full up."

Their waitress, taking orders from four loudly flirtatious men just three steps away, glanced over her shoulder at him. "Something wrong with your meal?"

Bobby shook his head. "It was fine. But more than I can handle."

"Want me to box it up for you?" She turned from the foursome, who frowned at him. "Maybe a coffee to go?"

"Don't have a fridge. I'm camping."

"At the park?"

"Right."

"I love it there. I hike all the time."

"Ever see a mountain lion?"

She flashed a smile. "From a distance. As much distance as I can manage. How long are you staying?"

"Just the weekend." The four men were scowling now. "I'd better let you get back to work. Nice talking to you."

Outside, he wound his way among pickups and semis until he reached the van. Then he leaned against the vehicle, took a deep breath of the late-morning air, and pulled out his cell phone. He stared at it a moment, wanting to call home, but not sure who he should talk to. Not Sarah; hers was the voice he most wanted to hear, but he doubted he could talk to her for thirty seconds right now without getting in a fight over Eddie. Rox? No way. Anna? Maybe, but… He punched in Kat's number, and listened to it ring three times before it connected.

"_Hello?_"

"Hey."

"_Bobby_." Her voice lowered. "_How are you doing?_"

"It's all good," he said, pleased that the big redhead had recognized his voice at the first word, and wondering who she was trying to keep the conversation private from. "Having fun. Really. Wish I had my guitar, though."

"_Sorry. You didn't deserve this._"

"If Eddie had gotten thrown out by himself, I'd have come along anyway. You guys doing okay?"

"_Hate to say, but it's kind of nice having the house to ourselves, for a little while anyway._ _I know Roxy misses him. But…_"

"But Sarah's stiffening her up. You don't need to say it." He shifted the phone to his other ear. "How is she?"

"_Fine. Busy."_ A pause. "_She's going on a date tonight. Roxy and I are hitting a club with Melanie."_

His meal felt even heavier. "That's good. Mel's good company. You'll have fun."

"_I'll have somebody to talk to while Roxy's out on the floor, anyway. Assuming she turns down a few dance offers. I can't believe she doesn't have a boyfriend._"

He looked down at his shoes. "Maybe she's just waiting for the right one."

"_Have you seen your dad yet?_"

"No. He might be at the campsite now. We're having late breakfast at a restaurant down the road." _And Eddie will want to come here for dinner, no doubt._

"_Anna says hi, and to tell you to be home in time for Sunday dinner. I think she's fixing one of your faves._"

He smiled at that, and at the mental image of the little blonde pixie looking over her shoulder at Kat as she dusted something or hauled a basket of laundry up from the basement. "Great. I'm sure I'll be tired of truck stop food by then. I might even write a song about it." A feeling of homesickness welled up, surprising him. "What are you doing right now?"

"_I just came in from the pool. Everybody else is still out there sunning, even Anna. She just popped into the house for a couple of lemonades and some ice. I swear she doesn't know how to sit still._"

"Not your long suit either." Bobby let the conversation flow: school, Melanie, a run-in earlier in the day between some boaters and the gangsters from up the beach. He talked about the drive to the park and setting up camp. Kat was always so easy to talk to, he thought. Usually when they were on the phone, though, he found himself imagining her as he'd first known her: a little redheaded ingénue no bigger than Rox, looking owlishly at the world through her thick glasses; easy to underestimate, until you got to know her well enough to see the dynamo of energy and intellect in that little package. Bobby had a weird feeling that Gen had expanded her outside to make more room for all the stuff that went on inside. "What are you going to do till you go out?"

"_Schoolwork and Web surfing, probably. Maybe work out downstairs. I could return a book to the library, I suppose. Roxy will insist on picking out my clothes and making me up an hour before we leave, I'm sure. How's Eddie?_"

Bobby looked towards the restaurant door. Nobody was coming out; Eddie was dragging their waitress, no doubt. "He's trying to make the best of things."

"_I bet he won't learn a thing from this. Except to be more careful about getting caught._"

_One can hope. _"You never know."

"_Sorry. He's my friend too, Bobby. Really. But sometimes guys can really test your friendship._"

Eddie appeared at the doorway and strolled his way. Between his fingers was a sales check. Bobby said into the phone, "Gotta go, Kat. Something's up."

"_Trouble?_"

"Nothing big. I'll call later." He disconnected as Eddie came close. "Bro, I paid the check."

Eddie gave him a faint smile. "Left a serious tip, too."

He shrugged. Ever since Kat had told him about the lousy waitressing job she'd had at Rutherford, he'd been leaving big tips at restaurants. "So, what's with the check?"

Eddie held it up, and Bobby saw that it was a blank one. Then he turned it over to show him the phone number and the name 'Amilee' written on the back.

Bobby put his hand on the door handle. "Congratulations."

Eddie extended it to him. "She asked me to give it to you, big spender."

Bobby took it without a word and got behind the wheel.

"I don't get it," Eddie went on later, looking out the windshield at the road climbing the ridge to the park. "Mel. Lori. Now a waitress you traded ten words with. I thought chicks liked bad boys, not apple-pie types."

_You're the least and the worst, _a man's voice rumbled from far away. _Your parents walked away from you. The State gave you chance after chance, and finally washed its hands of you. This is the last stop on the road to Hell. You should fall on your knees and thank God that someone is still willing to take you in and try to make something of you._ Past a tight throat, he said, "Guess they see something you don't."

"Hey. Wasn't that our turn?"

Bobby stepped on the brakes. Behind them, a horn blared, and a car swung around them and jetted away.

Eddie sat up. "Follow that car."

"What?"

"Dude. It's the same piece-a-crap Camaro from the carryout yesterday."

Bobby almost turned off anyway, then he gave a mental sigh and put his foot on the accelerator. "No scenes, bro. If we learn something, we tell the girl at the gas station, let her tell the cops."

"Sure thing."

"I mean it. No heroics, no citizen's arrests."

Eddie stared through the windshield at the other car as they closed on it. "Dude, do you have any idea how much you sound like your dad right now?"

The minivan accelerated briefly before Bobby relaxed his foot on the pedal. "Eddie, do you want to put Kat and Rox and Sarah back in cages?"

"I left my cape and tights at home anyway. Just follow him."

They followed the dinged-up, faded coupe for a couple of miles before it turned off onto a gravel road. When they turned off to follow, it slowed and pulled over into the scrub. The door opened as they approached, and a woman got out. She was in her fifties, maybe, with long gray hair that surrounded her head in a frizzy cloud and fell over her shoulders. She stayed between the half-open door and the frame, and kept one hand inside the car; Bobby guessed she had a weapon close at hand. He noticed a 'For Sale' sign taped to the back glass as they came to a stop at the Camaro's rear corner. "Ask her if she wants to sell the car."

Eddie leaned out and waved toward the Camaro's back window. "Hey there. I was wondering what you'd take for the car."

"What's a rich kid like you want with this piece a shit? Ain't even got a stereo."

"For parts," he explained. "I'm putting one together." He chin-pointed at the other car. "The body's not much, I got to say, but the motor sounds strong."

"It's a refurb," she said, still suspicious. "Three-fifty."

"For the car?"

She frowned. "The _motor_."

"You'd sell me just the motor?"

"That's the size of the motor. Three hundred fifty cubic inches. You don't know a damn thing about cars."

Bobby tensed, but Eddie kept talking unperturbed. "Not American ones. This is my first. I usually do Japanese projects." Bobby could almost hear the numbers crunching in his friend's head. "Five liter engine, really? That's _huge_."

"Maybe compared to the little sewin machines they put under the hoods a those rice grinders," she said, relaxing a little. "Not for Dee-troit iron."

Bobby remembered a trip to the drag strip with his last foster dad and the other kids, where he'd watched some of those 'rice grinders' turn in ten-second quarter miles, crossing the finish line doing over a hundred and sixty miles an hour. The car presently in front of him looked like it might fall apart if someone floored it for a quarter mile.

Eddie nodded seriously. "It's a big step up, all right. So, it's a daily driver?"

"The engine's only got three thousand, just broke in. I'll take two grand."

Eddie tapped a finger on the windowsill. "Dunno, that sounds like a lot."

"Yeah, well, the engine and tranny are worth that. Make up your mind quick. I had another guy lookin at it yesterday."

Eddie turned back into the car to look at him.

The woman puffed up. "You think I'm makin it up? He took it for a test drive just yesterday afternoon. Said he'd think about it, but he looked real pleased when he came back, let me tell you."

"Oh, I believe you. I do. But, see, if this is the same guy I'm thinking of, he just says that and doesn't come back for a week, trying to make you drop your price. What's he look like?"

She frowned. "Tall, sandy-haired, a little grubby-looking."

Eddie shook his head. "Not the same guy. Maybe he's legit. Guess I'll let him have it. Thanks anyway." He stuck his head back in the car. Bobby reversed and turned back towards the highway. "Well," Eddie said, "Now we know where he gets his cars."

"We know where he got _this_ one," Bobby corrected. "Maybe he steals the others and brings them back before they're missed." He drove for another half-mile, then said, "She didn't mention him coming back with groceries."

"Which means he stashed them somewhere close by. Probably lives in the area."

"You know, that wasn't very hard. Why haven't the cops nailed this guy?"

"Dude. Look around. I'll bet the Highway Patrol doesn't swing off the Interstate more than once a day to come down this road. How much time do you think they're gonna spend trying to catch a Cheetos thief?"

They didn't speak for the rest of the drive back, each of them nursing his own thoughts. Their campsite lay east of the main road, along an unpaved fire road that ran up into the hills. They didn't pass any occupied campsites on the way to the one they'd chosen, a wooded spot that looked out over the lower hills below. When they arrived at the camp, there was another car parked on the shoulder; something about it said 'rental'. Bobby looked up the slight rise to their tents, and saw his father kneeling over the fire pit, apparently trying to get one going.

As they walked up the gentle slope, they saw that John Lynch wasn't just trying to get a fire going; he was making a weird Boy Scout project out of it. He'd made some kind of bow-like contraption that he was sawing back and forth, twirling a straight stick wound in the string so that it spun like a drill. The end of the stick was pressed into a flat piece of wood on the ground sitting on what looked like an old bird's nest. His forehead glistened with sweat; Bobby figured he'd been at it awhile.

"Mr. L," Eddie called up as they closed the last dozen feet, "We got a lighter and some paper."

"Thanks, no." The man pressed the stick harder into the wood. "I'd rather do it this way."

Eddie looked at the man like he might turn violent. "Sure thing. My dad always made a big deal out of starting his campfires with a single match. That and a single can of lighter fluid."

Bobby looked at the contraption as it twirled the stick back and forth, squeaking from the pressure his father was applying. He felt his Gen kick in, and he sensed the heat pulsing out of the point of contact as it spun, stopped, and reversed. He sensed it approaching ignition temperature, but never quite reaching it before the bow's end of travel. He judged that the stick would get very close, but never actually burn. His father was wasting his time. "I don't think-"

"It's the wrong kind of wood, I know," the man said, not looking up. "It's all there is. I just have to put a little more into it, is all. Just a little more…" His tone made it sound as if the job was a contest of wills.

Bobby shook his head. "It's not happening."

John Lynch never looked up at him. "Turn your pockets inside-out."

Bobby tightened up. This wasn't the first time he'd heard a demand to turn out his pockets; like the demands to inspect his knuckles, they'd never been the start of something good. "Why?"

His father glanced up and studied him. "I'm not shaking you down, Bobby. I was just hoping for some lint."

"Oh." He reached in and pulled the linings out: clean. "I think Anna turns them out when she washes them."

"She's nothing if not thorough." He bent to his work again.

Bobby thought about using a little hocus-pocus. It would be easy to nudge the end of the stick up to ignition temperature. But he took a good look at his father's determined face and realized the man had other reasons to be straining at his task, trying to build a fire in the middle of the day with the temp in the sixties.

His father looked angry about something.

_He's pissed about being here,_ he decided. _No doubt he's got better things to do than babysit. _His irritation found its way out his mouth. "Look, you don't have to stay here. We already spent a night by ourselves. I'm sure we can find our way home."

His father stopped drilling and looked at him. "This was kind of my idea. I was hoping we could talk." He looked at the bow in his hands and set it down. "If you'd rather not, I understand. But I thought it was something you wanted too."

Bobby looked around for Eddie, but his friend had disappeared, probably into their tent, where he could listen to every word unseen. "I don't want to fight with you."

"That's the last thing I want, either."

"I think I remember saying we should do this in private. Bro," he said without raising his voice, "I'm taking a walk with my dad. Try not to get eaten by a mountain lion while we're gone." He headed downslope, towards the road.

They tramped up the fire road for awhile, side by side and a step apart. The road rose higher, headed for the top of the ridge. When the cars were dots behind them, Bobby said, "I never thanked you."

"Eh?"

"For getting us all out. Better late than never?" He replayed that in his head and realized his father might take it more than one way. He hadn't intended it like that – at least, he didn't _think_ he had – but he thought trying to explain or backpedal would just make it worse.

The man's lips thinned. "Bobby, you don't have to thank me for that."

"I feel like I should. I feel like I should take back half the things I said to you in that cell, too."

"Oh?" The man's voice was sharp. "Which half?"

"I'm not sure yet."

"It… must have been quite a shock."

"Yeah." He trudged on a few more steps. The cars disappeared around a wide bend in the road, and they were alone. "While we were still on the detention level, Rox told me to remember you were there when I needed you most, and I guess that's true." _Though, when I was eleven, I wouldn't have believed that I'd ever need a rescuer more._ "What was she like?"

"She?" The man's brow wrinkled for half a second before he got it. "Smart. Great sense of humor, when I met her anyway. She was younger by twelve years. I don't know what she saw in me. She was office staff at MacLean, an analyst of some kind. We didn't talk about work much; our classifications were exclusive." He paused. "That was part of the problem, I see that now. Too many secrets between us, too many gaps in the conversation."

"Is that why she left?"

"No." Another pause. "Manifesting wasn't the same for us earlier versions. There was nobody to guide us through it – in fact, the Shop claimed not to know what it had done to us, that the treatments they'd given us were an experimental inoculation series that had developed unexpected side effects."

"Like not sleeping for days and being able to think a man dead."

"Yeah." He took a breath. "We called it 'mojo'. It's different than yours. Yours comes when you call. We sort of have to go in and get it. And the place where it's at… people were never meant to be there. You spend too much time there, you can go crazy. It happened to quite a few of us before we realized. It was hard on her, watching me go strange and not be able to explain. She was afraid of me, I think. Who could blame her? And when you were born, I think she decided she couldn't stay with me anymore. For your sake."

"You didn't go after her?" It came out sharper than he'd intended.

"Not right away." The older man shrugged. "I… well, I thought she might be right. I figured she'd go to her parents' house in Tennessee. But she didn't, and when I didn't hear from her after a week, I thought she'd decided to make a fresh start. I was… I didn't know if I should interfere. I finally decided to locate her, at least, without getting in touch, just in case she needed help. But I couldn't find her."

"Couldn't find her. You work for an outfit like that, and you couldn't locate a single mom with a newborn?" _Easy. You promised yourself you'd be cool about this._

His father stopped. So did he, and they faced each other, almost like two men squaring off for a fight. But John Lynch folded his arms behind his back before he spoke again. "IO can do a lot of things, Bobby. It can listen at an unused telephone and follow people from orbit. It can track your cellphone, your car, and all your plastic, even your library card. It can access any computer record, no matter how private, if it's part of a network that communicates by phone line or satellite. But there are ways to live off the grid, even without money, and the only way they'll find you is by putting lots of manpower on it. And IO has never been big enough people-wise to do everything it wants to."

"Only, she wasn't living off the grid, was she? She was _dead_." He realized his hands had tightened into fists at his sides, and relaxed them. His father was still standing with his hands behind his back, almost inviting Bobby to take a poke. The idea had no appeal: he was sure no punch he threw would land unless the Man in Black let it. He knew his father was trying to help, but it was crappy psychology. "Wouldn't that make her easier to find?"

"It should have, but it didn't." His father brought his hands from behind his back and folded them. He glanced at a small stand of trees just off the road, and made for them. Bobby followed. They settled on the ground with their backs against trunks, looking out over the rolling hills below them, which were thinly carpeted with wildflowers: a variety of yellows with an occasional blue or purple blossom drawing the eye. It was beautiful and peaceful, and almost made Bobby forget why they were here. His father went on, "She was murdered a month after she left. She was living with you in Chicago, a big city where she had no relatives or previous connections. Still paying cash for everything, living off the money she'd taken with her. She was found in a Dumpster with her… she was beaten too badly for dental records to do any good, and she had no ID. No evidence of rape, just a vicious mugging. She'd never been fingerprinted, except by IO, so she wasn't on the police database. Eighty unidentified women about her age and description are found dead each day, coast to coast. After we'd checked everyplace else we could, and began to suspect the worst, IO exhumed and examined dozens of Jane Does to find her. That was nine weeks after she left, and you were gone without a trace." He stared at his shoes. "I should never have let her go. Of all the bad decisions I've made, that was the worst."

Bobby was inclined to agree. But he thought this strange man full of contradictions had beaten himself up plenty over what he'd done or not done. Bobby decided that John Lynch was never going to hear about his life in foster care from his lips. "Well, it's all in the past."

"But it's still shaping our future, isn't it?"

Bobby didn't have an answer for that, so he asked a question instead. "What did she look like?"

His father stared out over the yellow-dotted hills. "You got your eyes from her. Her hair was brown, but she frosted it blonde and feathered it back. It was a style back then. She had this little mole above her eyebrow. And she-" he stopped. "She was beautiful. Not everyone thought so, but she was." He looked out over the hills dotted with wildflowers, mostly gold with occasional blue or purple blossoms. "The yellow ones are yarrow and goldfield. The purple ones are columbine. This isn't quite the peak season for color. In another month, this hillside will be an artist's palette."

"You come here a lot?"

"Used to. Not here in the park, but the area."

"Where did you learn about flowers?"

The man gave a little head shrug. "I took a lot of biology electives in high school. I thought I'd major in plant biology or physiology at college."

"How did you end up… doing what you do?"

"I encountered a detour in my career track, you might say. Something called Selective Service." He was silent a moment. "Vietnam was a baptism of sorts. It changed my outlook on life, not entirely for the better. I saw so many things that desperately needed fixing, and the solutions seemed so simple if you only wanted change bad enough. It made me think the world needed a greater contribution from me than giving it another botanist. Instead of going home when my enlistment was up, I applied for Special Forces." He picked up a stone and tossed it onto the road. "I learned a dark kind of morality there, the kind that makes people say things like 'the greater good' and 'acceptable losses.' I still won't say the things I did were all wrong, but I often wished for a better way to do them."

"I'm sure your old friends from work feel that way too. The ones who'll put us back in cages if they find us." Bobby stood. "Ready to walk some more?"

They walked together towards the ridgetop. After a dozen yards or so, Bobby said, "Anna said you decided to bail on IO as soon as you found me. Just dropped your life and ran to the rescue."

"It seems I have advocates." He looked down at the road. "Among the girls, anyway."

"Anna thinks you're the greatest thing since… well, since anything. And Rox tends to go by first impressions, and you made a _really_ good first impression." Kat's attachment to his father, Bobby thought, was weird but understandable, something like hero worship mixed in with the affection a sick person feels for their doctor or therapist. Kat didn't have any practice handling guys, so her feelings were out there for anybody to see. He was glad his old man didn't seem the sort to take advantage. "But I'm having trouble believing you set this all up on the fly."

"Your skepticism is justified. I'd been preparing an exit strategy for some time, but only as a contingency. The safe house, the computer firewall blocking information on my movements, the money – that was all in place and waiting before I found you. And I found you at Darwin a couple months before I got you out. I decided to leave you there while I prepared your escape. When you manifested and IO locked you up and started playing with your mind, the time for careful planning was over."

They reached the top and stood shoulder to shoulder, looking around and making bland comments about the view. Then John Lynch lifted his head and frowned. "You hear something?"

Bobby listened. He heard the wind soughing through the trees at the top of the ridge, an occasional birdsong… and a low whirring noise coming up to them from below. Now that he was paying attention, he thought he might have been hearing it for awhile without it registering. "Engine noise, maybe? Kind of like a bike. Somewhere on the highway."

"Or this road." His father turned and jogged back down the road toward their camp. Bobby followed, puzzled and a little spooked by the man's sudden concern. Halfway back, the engine noise abruptly cut off, and the man picked up the pace until he was almost running down the hill. When they got to the bend, his father stopped and brought up a fist next to his head, which Bobby took as a signal to halt. Then the man made a beckoning gesture and pointed with his eyes down the road. "Expecting someone?"

Bobby looked. The campsite was still invisible among the trees, but he could see that their two vehicles had been joined by a third, a blue crotch rocket. A matching helmet hung from the handlebar. He shook his head.

They moved forward cautiously, keeping to the side of the road so that they were hidden by the trees. Bobby smelled wood smoke. They heard Eddie talking indistinctly, followed by a girl's laugh, and Bobby relaxed. But his father seemed as tense as ever.

The camp came into view. Eddie, on the other side of the fire ring, was just getting off his knees, and flames were climbing the teepee of sticks he'd laid. On the near side, her back to Bobby and his dad, a girl in designer jeans and a tight black leather jacket stood with her back to them. Bobby took note of the girl's dark-blonde ponytail and said, "I think it's a girl we met at the restaurant this morning, a waitress. Her name's Amilee."

"Hmph." His dad started up the slope to the tents. "Eddie must have made an impression."

Eddie chin-pointed towards them, and the girl half-turned and gave them a gleaming over-the-shoulder smile and a little wave. "Hi," she called. "I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I'd stop by."

"In the neighborhood." Bobby and his dad stopped on opposite sides of the fire, each of them between Eddie and the girl. "Amilee, this is my dad."

"Hi," she said, then turned to Bobby. "I really was in the neighborhood. I just got off shift, and I go through the park on the way home. I remembered you saying you were camping here, and I had a hunch you'd be in primitive."

Bobby cracked a smile. "So, I look like the primitive type?"

"You look like the kind of guy who enjoys simple pleasures. Listen, I can't stay. I was telling Eddie, maybe I could swing by later, if that's okay."

Eddie looked at him with a desperate expression. Without looking at his father, Bobby nodded. "Sure."

"Great. Nice meeting you, Bobby's dad." She headed downslope towards her bike, her long strides making her rear end sway in a figure eight.

Bobby turned to his friend. "You gave her my name."

"Hayull _yes_, I gave her your name." Eddie watched her swing a leg over her bike and reach for her helmet. "She offered me a ride when she comes back. _And_ she mentioned she'd probably be with a girlfriend from the restaurant. Yowza."

"Hm."

John Lynch squatted to add a few sticks to the fire. "Are you boys going to need a chaperone?"

"Yes," Bobby said, at the same time Eddie said, "No."

The bike fired up, its motor purring like a big cat. Amilee gave them a little wave and lay across the gas tank to take both handlebars, then tucked her knees up to put both feet on the pegs – and stretching the material of her already-tight jeans to a spray-paint fit - as the machine rolled away. "Gulp," Eddie said. He took Bobby behind their tent. "Dude," he said, his voice low, "I've still got those two in my wallet, if you want one."

Bobby stared at his friend. "You didn't just give her my name. This whole thing's a setup, isn't it? You told her where to find us."

Eddie crossed his heart and raised a hand. "Not that I wouldn't have, mind. But no. That one's got you in her sights."

"Well, my head's not going to end up mounted on her wall. If she comes back, stay close." He walked back around the tent. His father was still staring into the flames, deep in thought. Bobby thought that, whatever had been bothering the man when he'd arrived was still with him, and it wasn't his strange relationship with his estranged son. Bobby just hoped it wasn't some danger to the girls.

_He said secrets ruined his life with her. But keeping secrets is a damned hard habit to break. Who knows better than me?_


	14. The Dating Game, Part 1

Saturday April 3 2004  
San Diego

"High heels," Caitlin said, looking unbelieving at the contents of the open box in Roxanne's hands. "For me."

"They're wedges, for crying out loud. Just four inches. You won't fall over; you might not even notice."

"I'll notice. Roxy, I can't get through a door with my hair up if I'm not barefoot. Why would I want to be _taller_?"

Roxanne looked down on her sister, who was perched on one of the shoe store's little benches. "It's not about being taller. It's about making your legs look terrific in a dress. Preferably something shorter than those granny skirts you wear."

"Roxy, I'm going to a dance, not a, a …"

"A hooker's convention?" Roxanne smiled and shook her head. "A school dance is no place for a feminist, Sis. You and Joel have roles to play. He's supposed to treat you like a princess, and your job is to make every guy in the room wish he was Joel." _And make them wonder if Joel's getting any, but we won't go into that, will we?_

Their plans for the evening had taken something of a turn when Kat had called Melanie to invite her out. "_Lori and I were headed to the charity bash the Chi's are throwing tonight._" Kat had put the call on speaker, so Roxanne could join in; Melanie's voice had sounded excited. "_Lori's dad's an alum, and they hinted the Sirens might get a gig out of it if we show._"

Kat had frowned into the phone. "Show what?"

Melanie had snorted. "_It's a __frat__, Kat. You can't get too many girls at a frat party. Think we could get Sarah to come too?_"

Kat had glanced at her and shaken her head, even though she was on the phone. "Not her style. She's got other plans, anyway."

"_We roped Joel into coming. He's not taking it with good grace. I'm sure he'd rather be moping at home while Alex is whooping it up in Mexico. It would cheer him up to know you were coming too._"

Kat had shifted the phone to her other ear and looked at her for a sign. "Um…"

Roxy had nodded vigorously.

"Okay. Roxy says she'll come, too. What should we wear?"

"_Something you'd wear to a party. A nice dress._"

"Kay. We can pick you up. What time?"

"_Seven okay?_"

Kat had looked at her again. It was one o'clock. It would have to do. She'd nodded again.

Kat had returned her attention to the phone. "Suits. See you then."

Roxy had grabbed her wrist as soon as she'd hung up. "Get the car keys. We have to go shopping, like _now_."

"All the clothes you've got, and you need something?"

"Not for me, doof. For you."

"I've got clothes." But Kat had picked up the keys anyway. "Anna, we're going clothes shopping, I guess."

"Have a good time," the little housekeeper had called from the basement. Neither girl was surprised that Anna had been able to hear them. "I'll serve dinner a little early, so you'll have plenty of time to primp."

In the car, as the garage door had rolled up, Kat had said, "Why are we doing this? All I need is something casual."

Roxanne had rolled her eyes. "She said 'party clothes'. That means New Year's party, not birthday party. And I _know_ you don't have a thing to wear on a date."

"Date?" The car had started out of the garage with a little jerk.

"Kat," Roxanne had said patiently, "Do you want to have fun tonight, or do you want to spend the whole night fighting off horny frat boys?" She'd gone on, "Half the kids in school think you and Joel are more than lab partners. If you're seen in public, everyone will assume you're dating, which is good for you, for tonight, anyway. So play the part. You like him, don't you?"

"Not like _that_. We're just friends. Besides, he's seeing Alex."

"Nobody seems to know that. Maybe cuz nobody sees them together like they do you. Anyway. You and Joel act like it's a date, and you can spend the night in peace. Your choice."

Kat had gone along, a little grumpily, and Roxanne had led her through a selection of stores without buying a thing – for Kat; Roxy was weighed down with purchases, items that had simply shouted at her to be taken home.

Kat held one of the open-toed shoes in her hand. "I'll tower over him on the dance floor."

"If I know you and Joel, you won't go near the dance floor. But if you do, just kick em off first. Guys like that."

Kat frowned. "Why?"

_Because seeing a sexy-looking girl undress even a little in public gets them hot. And it makes them hope you're loosening up._ "Just take my word for it."

"I bet Joel will be wearing school clothes."

"Pfft. As if Melanie would let him out of the house." She set the box on the floor and walked a few steps down the aisle for another. "Besides, he's not the one who has to dress to impress. Melanie will make sure he doesn't show up at the door looking like a homeless person."

Kat slipped off her running shoes and white socks. "Why are we shopping for shoes first?"

"Cuz that's where the selection will be slimmest. We might have to pick out a dress to go with the shoes, Size Eleven."

"I don't have much luck finding clothes." She slipped a foot into the shoe and wiggled her toes. "You know that."

"Kat, have you even shopped for a dress since you changed? For sure, you don't have a single party dress in your closet. We'll find you something. It'll be easier than buying pants, guaranteed." _Although it's sure to show more skin than you're used to. The challenge will be finding something that shows you off that you won't keep tugging at all night._

Roxanne was by turns amused, perplexed, and frustrated by her half-sister's spinster-librarian attitudes. Kat wasn't a prude, really; Roxy's clothing choices didn't elicit the disapproving looks from her that they did from Mr. Lynch. She just wouldn't dream of wearing something like that herself, or doing anything that got her noticed by boys. Back when the two of them had actually looked like sisters, Kat had blushed and fidgeted any time a boy looked at her longer than five seconds, or teased her, or offered her a little throwaway flirting, and Roxy had wondered if she would ever manage to score a boyfriend. Now, Kat could make guys walk into walls as she passed by, and could gather a circle of admirers in ten seconds with just a smile. But she still dressed more for cover than for show, and looked at any guy who came on to her as if he'd just exposed himself in public. As far as Roxanne could see, Kat was farther away from having a boyfriend than ever.

And Kat could really, really use a boyfriend. Having a regular guy in the picture would keep the dawgs at bay, and teach her some valuable lessons about dealing with the opposite sex. She was compulsive about schoolwork in a way that went beyond getting good grades; tending to a boyfriend should get her nose out of the books some. And…

Roxanne worried about Kat's other compulsion. Her attitude towards Mr. Lynch was strange and maybe unhealthy. A guy in her life who was age-appropriate might be just what she needed right now.

La Jolla

"Kat, quit tugging at that dress. You look fine."

Caitlin shifted her hips as she put the minivan into park. She pulled at the hem of her leaf-green dress, which presently ended six or eight inches above her knees. "It keeps riding up."

"It rises one frigging inch."

Kat's hand went to the string around her neck, trying to pull up the neckline, which exposed five inches of skin below the throat. "It's just so short to begin with."

"Your thighs are, like, two feet long. You're not showing anything. Somebody'd have to have their head between your knees to see your panties." Roxanne smoothed down the front of her mini, a charcoal-colored elastic sheath that ended at about the same height as her sister's. On Roxy, however, the hem left so little leg unexposed it needed to be tucked between her thighs while sitting. "And quit messing with the top part, too. It's a Queen Anne, for crying out loud. You're showing two inches of boob."

They were in the driveway of the Richards' house, come to pick up Joel, Lori, and Melanie. Caitlin had just been on the phone with Melanie, and the girl had told her that the three of them would be right out.

The house's front door opened, and Joel stepped out. Roxy appraised Kat's nerdy friend. He looked freshly shaved and his hair was brushed. He wore pressed slacks, jacket, and tie; his shoes were clean, and everything fit and hung properly. She decided he cleaned up pretty good. Maybe Alex was onto something after all.

He slid the van's door aside. "Another minute. Why, I don't know. I thought they were ready ten minutes ago."

"Girls," Kat commiserated. "You look nice, Joel."

"Thanks." He glanced inside. "Uh, so do you. Both of you." He stayed outside.

Melanie stepped out and waited by the front door, key in hand. She was wearing an attractive but conservative outfit: a sleeveless blue dress that fitted closely without clinging, ending just above the knee; two-inch heels that matched her little strapless purse; matching necklace, earrings, and watch. She looked ready to do business first and party after.

Lori stepped through the door and strutted towards the car. Roxanne said, "Gawd. I've been totally upstaged."

The Goth girl had changed her look, sort of. The cosmetic foundation was still pale, but not nearly as heavy as usual, with a little touch of blush brushed on her cheekbones. The dark eyeshadow was still there, but the use of eyeliner was more judicious, the shaping of her eyes more natural. She'd outlined her mouth with pencil, but the black lipstick had been replaced with dark coral, and she actually looked kissable.

Her dress was a game-changer. It was black, of course, and floor-length. But it was lightweight and slit up to her hip on both sides, and opened wide when she took a long stride, showing off her spike-heeled knee-high black boots and the full length of her bare thighs. The top half wasn't fabric but black suede, laced in front like a corset and very low-cut. She'd applied makeup to her bare shoulders and generous cleavage, as well, the same white foundation with a touch of rose. She wore fingerless shoulder-length gloves of black lace, and her usual black nail polish had been replaced by a shade close to the one on her lips. Her black hair was up off her neck, and clear stones sparkled at ears and throat. A little black bag swung at her hip, hanging off her shoulder by a long thin strap.

Lori passed by Joel to step into the van. The dress fell completely off her leg, exposing black lace panties, Brazil-cut. She flipped it back over her legs as she sat.

Kat regarded her in the rear-view mirror. "That's Goth, really?"

"Not really," the girl replied, adjusting her bustier top. "More like Halloween-party Goth. Sort of a cross between Morticia Adams and Saint Pauli Girl. Think I'll impress the bluebloods?"

Joel said, "You could impress a dead man. And you look ready to try."

She smiled wide. "_Reed._ Humor and hormones both? Alex is _so_ good for you."

San Diego

The bus dropped Sarah off three blocks from her destination. She shouldered her small gym bag and set off down the grimy sidewalk to her appointment. On the way, she was accosted by three idlers, whom she brushed past without a word, and impatiently waved off a vehicle that pulled to the curb just ahead of her. Her irritation was faint and fleeting – on this street, regardless of the time of day, a young woman alone was almost certainly a prostitute, and her tight brief clothing would only have reinforced that assessment – but she was in a hurry.

She paused at the front door of her destination: a plain brick structure just like the ones flanking it, unmarked by any sign but the street number above the door. She mounted the two steps and pushed the door open.

Inside was a small dingy room with a single door leading further into the building, guarded by a middle-aged woman sitting behind a desk. She watched Sarah enter, eying her clothing. "You're in the wrong building, sugar. The rent-by-the-hour place is two doors…" She paused. "Wait a minute. Aren't you-"

Sarah slipped her bag off her shoulder. "Hello, Mrs. Wallace. Is there someplace I can change?"

The woman pressed a button on the desk, and the door buzzed and clicked. "Bathroom three doors down on the right. Is that supposed to be a disguise or something?"

"Or something." She moved toward the door.

Mrs. Wallace said, "I'm glad you came back. I didn't expect it. People like you usually don't."

Sarah paused at the doorway and frowned. "People like me?"

The woman shrugged. "People who haven't been through it. You don't have the look."

Sarah passed through the door without comment and followed the doorguard's directions to the women's bathroom, a four-stall affair whose fixtures looked like they'd been installed in the Fifties. She found a stall with a working lock and began slipping out of her clothes. The outfit she wore had been put on for the benefit of Roxanne and the others, who'd assumed she'd been headed out on a date. That suited Sarah fine; she had no desire to endure whatever comments the others might make about what she did in places like this. She'd passed up the little robot housekeeper's offer of a ride, and refused the loan of a car; Sarah was half certain the vehicles in Anna's care were bugged somehow, and she had no desire to be kept track of.

She emerged from the stall dressed in jeans and a plain white tank top. Her only accessory was a silver crucifix, a recent gift from Roxanne and a duplicate of the one the little sprite always wore around her neck. She examined her face in the mirror and removed most of her makeup. When she'd readied herself as best she could, she took a deep breath and let it out, shouldered her bag, and went down the hall to the room she'd visited the previous week.

She knocked on the door, and, a moment later, a harried-looking woman opened up. "Sarah?"

Sarah smiled at her. "Wendy, why does everyone act so surprised I'm here? I said I'd be back next week, didn't I?"

"You don't know how often we hear that." Wendy swung the door wide. "I'm glad. I hate leaving them in front of the TV, but I don't have your knack."

_You might if you grew up in a house without one,_ she thought. She stepped in, listening. From the next room, she heard a television playing a simple jingle, something from either a kiddy show or a commercial. "Where are the moms tonight? Group, or classes?"

"Classes. They're learning about guilt trips, and emotional dependency, and how to avoid being manipulated. Most of them would be headed back home with their old men in ten minutes, if the bastards ever found them here." The woman looked at her. "Those stories you told the kids about your family. You made that stuff up, right?"

Sarah shook her head. "All true."

She scoffed. "I can't imagine a childhood that happy."

_A happy childhood, for sure, _Sarah thought. _The adolescence, not so much._ She stepped into the next room, and saw half-a-dozen children of various ages sitting on the floor around an old TV set. She said, "Hey. Turn that thing off. It's story time."

The children all turned to her. All but two were familiar from her previous visit. Sarah had been surprised to see that the kids and their moms were mostly white, with a couple of Hispanics. The lady running the battered-women's shelter had explained: "Black women don't usually run. They either put up with it till they get killed or hurt bad enough to involve the authorities, or they kill the men in their sleep."

One of the newcomers said to another child, a girl of seven or eight, "Who's that?"

"It's Sarah," she said, as if Sarah had been a regular fixture in her life for years. "She's an Indian."

"Am not," Sarah said. She stepped to the set and turned it off. "Indians are people from India. I'm a Native American, meaning my people walked here from Asia about ten thousand years before yours sailed here from Europe."

"That's why you look Japanese," the boy said.

"No, she doesn't," another girl put in. "I went to Mexico once. She looks Mexican."

Sarah shook her head, still smiling. "Wrong and wrong. I don't look like either of those ethnic groups. But to whites, all us dark-skinned people look alike." She would have been offended if her audience had been adults, but you had to make allowances for kids. They saw the world with fresh eyes, except where their sight had been blinkered by their parents' prejudices. She dropped to her knees in front of a boy she'd made friends with the week before, and reached for his head, grinning. "You know, to me, you all look as alike as muffins from the same pan." She rubbed knuckles across the top of his head. "I can't tell. Are you a boy or a girl?"

"Boy!" He squealed, and a couple of the others laughed.

"You can't walk here. There's an ocean." The child who spoke had a ball cap on, and appeared to have a shaved head underneath.

"North America and Asia were connected just south of the Arctic Circle once," Sarah said. "If you look at a map of Alaska, you can see a spot where they almost touch. That's where we crossed."

"Why do they call you Indians, then?" Another boy asked.

She took them all in. Several of them bore bruises on their arms or faces; Sarah knew there were plenty more under their clothes, and more than a few scars as well. _Tell them the story of Columbus? Make it the schoolbook version, then. They don't need to hear a story about a selfish brutal man who lied to those who trusted him and committed atrocities on the helpless. They have enough of their own._

She smiled and sat on the floor, crossing her legs. "That sounds like the start of a story. Have you ever known somebody too stubborn to admit a mistake, even when he knows he's wrong? Europeans discovered America by accident about five hundred years ago, when they were looking for India, and even after they knew they hadn't, they sort of stuck with their mistake.

"At the time, traders who traveled by sea to India and China went south down the coast of Africa, then east to the Indian Ocean." She gestured with her hands. "It was a long and dangerous trip, but back then even the biggest ships were sailboats, and their navigation wasn't very good. They got lost a lot when they sailed out of sight of land and couldn't see any landmarks. Plus, their ships weren't big enough to carry enough food and water, so they had to drop anchor every so often and pick stuff up on shore.

"Now, contrary to what everybody thinks he knows, most educated Europeans at the time believed the world was round. But nobody had a way to prove it, and they weren't sure how big around the Earth was. The only way to _be_ sure was to sail around it. But no one was willing to take the risk, until-"

"Columbus!" One boy called out.

"That's right, Christopher Columbus. He convinced the Spanish government to give him a small fleet of ships to sail west and find India. He was taking a big risk, even if he didn't lose his way, because his ships could only carry enough food and water to get him to India if it was as close as he hoped.

"It wasn't. He guessed wrong about the size of the Earth, by about ten thousand miles. If America hadn't been in the way, he would have died at sea less than halfway there. But he made landfall in the islands of the Caribbean, and called them the 'West Indies', thinking he'd found a string of islands just east of India. He called the natives 'Indians', and kept calling them that, even after it was clear to everyone that India wasn't anywhere near. When whites explored the mainland, they called the people they found there 'Indians', too, and the name stuck for five hundred years." She gestured to herself. "I'm an Apache, part of a people called the Athabaskans. Most of us live in Arizona and New Mexico."

"On the rez," A child who'd been in Sarah's audience last week said. "That's a reservation."

She nodded. "That's right."

"Apache. Does that mean something?" A new boy. He'd looked at her with some unease when she'd entered, but the ready acceptance of the others had put him at ease.

She nodded. "It does, but not in my language." She lowered her voice. "In Zuni, it's part of a longer name meaning 'the fierce enemy from the North'. We kicked a lot of butt, taking land from other tribes to make a homeland when we moved south from Canada about a thousand years ago. We still have a reputation as fearless fighters, even though we've lived at peace for a long time now." She sat up straighter. "Now, who wants to hear a story my grandmother told me, about Coyote the Trickster?"

"You told that one last week," a girl said.

"Lots of stories about Coyote. He gets in all kinds of mischief. For example. One day, Coyote was paddling a canoe…"

Ramona California

"This is a frat house?" Kat's eyes left the road to glance at the fancy white wrought-iron fence they'd been rolling past for two minutes. "This is an estate."

Roxy peered past the fence at the rolling hills beyond. She thought she could just make out a huge angled roof on the other side, maybe half a mile distant. "No, it's more like corporate headquarters for the company that invented food or something. The _fence_ must've cost a million dollars." The fence posts were monuments, brick columns eight feet tall, supporting massive twenty-foot ironwork panels; the barrier stretched as far down the road as she could see.

"Sixteen million. The Chi's are a very old, very rich frat," Melanie said. "They've got chapters on both coasts. And associates in Europe."

Roxy turned to Lori, sitting behind Kat. "And your dad's an alum." She hadn't suspected the Goth girl came from money. She wondered if Lori's dad was as rich as Mr. Lynch.

Lori gave her an odd smile. "Don't start sucking up too soon. I'm trying hard to get disowned."

"This isn't your usual Chi 'do," Melanie went on. "Once a year, they go slumming a little, and the guest list opens up to include jocks and campus celebrities. And every presentable girl they can round up. They draw a huge crowd, and they take a lot of photos."

A brick driveway and huge gate appeared, with a parade of shiny cars rolling in. Kat turned in and lined up. "So I see. But why do they do it?"

"Different reasons," Lori said. "It's something they can point to at charter renewal meetings when somebody complains that they're too elitist. Members and alums are strongly urged to show, even if they only talk to one another. But the regular members _do_ rub elbows with the plebs, some of them anyway, and it widens the social network a little. And a crowd of girls always draws guys looking for action, no matter who their daddies are."

"Kind of like a club, the kind with a doorman and a velvet rope." Roxy looked over the scenery, acres of rolling grass and scattered trees and a line of mostly expensive cars stretching in front and behind. "How's the music?"

Lori scoffed. "Sucks. That may change next year, if Mel gets to talk to the right people tonight."

A minute later, the hills drew aside to reveal the final stretch of the drive. The house was as big as a warehouse, but much prettier, with a circular drive fronting a façade of brick the same color as the fence-posts, and an overhang supported by four big fluted columns. "Welcome to Tara."

They passed under a canopy extending over the driveway and pulled up to the door. The valet's reluctance to approach the two-year-old minivan disappeared when Kat stepped out and offered him the keys. Roxy took her elbow and guided her off the pavers to the sidewalk. "Stay on the pavement, no grass or gravel. Remember, put your heel down first, but transfer your weight to the ball of your foot right away. Back and legs straight, tush in, shoulders back. Take small steps. Point your toes out just a little if you have to. And don't look down."

"Roxy, it's not the first time I've worn heels, you know."

"Wouldn't be the first time you fell in them, either. Not even the first time today."

Kat pulled at her hem and rolled her shoulder, making no change whatever in the way the dress hung on her. "That was just a little stumble."

"Kat, you hit the kitchen floor so hard it made ripples in the pool." They reached the wide concrete, and Roxy let go of her sister's arm. "Time to leave the nest. Fly, little bird." Roxanne ignored her own advice, putting one foot in front of the other as if walking a line on the sidewalk. She was wearing strappies with two-inch soles and six-inch spikes, which gave her a height of maybe five-six or -seven and showed her off nicely, she thought, especially with the added bounce and sway of the catwalk-strut. Kat's cautious glide allowed Roxy to walk alongside without rushing or falling behind.

Lori sidled up, and the three of them walked toward the entrance side-by-side. Males at the door and on the sidewalk turned their heads to watch. Lori said, "Roxy girl, you have a price in mind? Because you won't get out of here tonight without somebody asking."

Roxanne snorted. "Do I look like _any_ of them could afford me?"

Behind them, Melanie said, "I feel like I'm part of an entourage. Hang back, Joel. Let them make their entrance."

Kat slowed. "You two go on."

"Sis, _honestly_."

"I'm supposed to be with Joel. Now's the time to start." She took Joel's arm. "Don't let me fall, kay?"

Joel offered his other arm to his sister. "If I'm going to be gallant, I might as well go all the way."

As soon as they passed through the tall front doors and entered the building, Roxanne revised her mental description of the place: _not a warehouse or a corporate headquarters; a five-star hotel_. Inside the doors was a lobby of sorts, all polished wood and light marble with a twenty-foot ceiling and tile floors. In a conversation area a few steps away, leather couches surrounded a thick rug on three sides; a flickering fireplace completed the square. Art hung on the walls and stood displayed in niches. An attendant stood near a stand-up desk like a big lectern, directing visitors. Roxy blinked at a set of elevator doors behind him. "How many floors has this place got?"

"Three," Lori said. "But we won't be going upstairs. The party's out back."

A man sitting on one of the couches stood. "Lorelei."

Lori said, "Dad. I was going to call when we got in. You didn't need to wait for us."

"I was hoping you'd get here earlier, but you're actually earlier than I expected." The man approached them and clasped both his daughter's hands. He looked to be about fifty, with a full head of salt-and-pepper and a build that spoke of regular exercise. The cut and material of the lightweight gray suit he wore shouted _money_ to Roxanne, and the man's cufflinks and tie tack looked like gemstones. "These are your friends from the band?"

"Mostly just friends from school." Lori made introductions, and Roxy learned her last name was Adler. Roxy noted that her father looked at Mel and her and Kat with a man's appreciation, and wondered if Mrs. Adler was still in the picture.

"Well." He addressed Melanie. "I'll take you upstairs, Melanie. The other Board members aren't actually waiting – I doubt they'll move from the drawing room all night – but I think it would be to your advantage to see them early. I'll make introductions and back out. It being that my daughter's in the band, we don't want any appearance of favoritism or undue influence."

Lori rolled her eyes. "Dad. As if everybody doesn't know how many arms you twisted."

He smiled at Mel. "Well, I did say 'appearance', didn't I?"

"Okay," Lori said, "we'll just skip on out to the party then, Mel. You can hook up later."

"She won't have any trouble finding you," Mr. Adler said. "You're sure to draw a crowd." He looked at his daughter. "I'd hoped you might dress a little more conservatively tonight, Lorelei. Given the nature of the occasion."

"I did. As for 'the nature of the occasion'-" She scoffed. "Come on, Dad. I know exactly what kind of girls get invited to this party, and why. It's a livestock competition. And when some alum's kid balks at pledging Dad's old frat, they drag out pictures of the Mixer, and he thinks he's getting a key to the Playboy Mansion. I'm just doing my part." She put a hand on her hip and turned, giving him an over-the-shoulder look and a little wiggle. "Tell me I'm not eye candy. I dare you."

"I wouldn't dream of it." He shook his head. "I don't know how you do it. You're … repellent and seductive at the same time, a walking advertisement for necrophilia. If I were a young pledge, I'd do anything to have you." He sighed and patted her butt. "Go have fun. Try to stay out of trouble."

Roxy glanced at her sister, and found the big redhead looking back. The whole exchange between Lori and her dad was weird and a little creepy, she thought.

Lori led the way past the concierge desk, or whatever it was, and down a long wide hallway busy with people.

"Your dad seems nice," Kat said, still leaning on Joel's arm.

"He's a horn dawg," the Goth girl said without looking back. "He'd jump any of you if you give him the slightest encouragement. Ten dollars says he'll have his hand at the small of Mel's back by the time they reach the door." She took a few steps more. "But he is nice."

"Is your mom …"

"The latest Mrs. Adler is living on the East Coast. They talk on the phone every night and see each other about once a month." She took a few more steps. "She's also nice. Nuclear families aren't for everyone, girlfriends. Dad and Estelle and I are the most functional dysfunctional family you'll ever meet."

Roxy looked down the hall as far as the crowd would allow, which wasn't very; sometimes she hated being short. "Where are we going?"

"Like I said, out back. The house is sited towards the back of the property, but there's plenty of room for a tent. Keeps the plebs from soiling the carpets, I suppose."

Kat looked to Roxy. "'Stay off the grass'."

"Oh," Lori said, "that won't be a problem." She slowed as the crowd in front thickened, and Roxy realized they were at a glass door. They filed through, Kat ducking slightly, and were outside under a canopy, following another wide concrete path. Kat looked out over the crowd. "Wow."

"What?" But then the crowd in front spread out a bit, and she could see. The path led to a white canvas structure the size of a circus tent. Actually, it looked big enough to fit a football field into, stands and all. "Gawd."

"It's not exactly a tent," Lori explained as they passed out from under the canopy and walked through the dappled shade of mature trees. "They just wrapped the tennis courts in canvas and Plexi and put a top on it." Roxy now saw that there were clear plastic panels sewn into the ten-foot walls at regular intervals, made to look like fancy multipaned windows. Behind them, she could see people moving around.

A wide awning hung over the entrance. They stepped under and passed inside.

"Gawd," Roxy said again. The opposite wall was small with distance. There were a thousand people inside, it looked like, but the place still looked half empty. "How many tennis courts has this place got?"

"Four," Lori said. "But they're oversize. You're probably looking at twenty-five thousand square feet under canvas."

Kat stopped, letting the incoming crowd swirl around her and Joel, and surveyed the scenery. "It looks like we're inside a building." The huge floor was covered in blue outdoor carpet. The poles holding up the roof, big enough to string power lines from, were painted white to give the appearance of columns. The fancy window panels let in plenty of light for the guests and the nursery's worth of potted plants breaking up the floor space. Couches and chairs, commercial-grade but upholstered and comfortable-looking, were grouped together at different spots, as were tables and chairs at a large crowded area where Roxy suspected they'd find the bar.

"Yep." Lori started walking. "Especially in the photos. People who've never been here think it's part of the house." She led the way to the other end. "And _this_, children, is the reason we're here."

They were standing at the edge of an empty dance floor. Wood parquet had been laid in a square about fifty feet on a side, with a raised band platform at one end. Roxy eyed the setup. "Seems kind of small for a hall this size."

"Believe me, it's plenty. The only time it fills up is fifteen minutes out of every hour, when the band goes on break and the DJ takes over."

Roxy looked over the band area, and the instruments set up for play: a smallish drumset, keyboard, a selection of wind instruments in stands. She didn't see any guitars. "Lori. Tell me that's not a, a…"

"Yep. It's an accordion." She smiled at them. "The band is made up of alums. Some of them have been playing this gig since nineteen-sixty, and their playlist wasn't current even then. They've added new members and some newer songs over the years, but they didn't improve them. They do a version of 'Like a Virgin' that brings tears to your eyes – and your hands to your ears."

They settled into a tall table by the dance floor, which seemed likely to be the most deserted spot in the room. Joel hit the bar and came back with soft drinks. Roxy perched on a barstool, sipping her Coke over crushed ice and thinking their Girls' Night Out was beginning to look like a bust.

The band arrived, and they were everything Lori promised: four guys in their fifties, who took thirty minutes to tune up – not that anyone grudged it. The music belonged at a mixer in a retirement home. Not a soul stepped on the dance floor for forty-five minutes, and the musicians didn't even seem to notice. The crowd drifted around the floor like smoke in a faint draft, eddying around tables where girls were sitting. The attention of boys, who outnumbered females at this party five-to-one, was the only worthwhile part of the experience; they crowded around the table three deep at times, climbing over each other like puppies in a box for a shot at Kat or Lori or her.

Finally, the band went on break and the DJ took over. The dance floor filled up at the first song. Roxy accepted an offer to dance, breathing a huge sigh of relief, and wriggled her way onto the packed floor with her partner.

-0-

Lori, sitting alone at the table by the dance floor, sighed quietly. _Now I know how Kat feels_, she thought. Their table had been surrounded for most of the past two-and-half hours by a circle of male admirers. That was nothing unusual at this party; the crowd was only about twenty percent female, and the Chi's had actively sought out the hottest babes on campus and elsewhere to tender invitations, so every girl in the place had a date or a retinue, or both. But the three of them seemed to be getting far more than their share. Even the awful music nearby couldn't keep them away. Possibly it was because 'Fantasy' Fairchild was in their group, out of classes and accessible to hopeful wolves for the first time since she'd come to school. But Lori and Roxanne were handling an unending stream of five-minute daters as well, guys trolling the big hall for strange and easy.

Roxy had disappeared into the crowd on the dance floor at the first break, dancing until the band returned and then rejoining them at the table. At the second break, forty-five minutes ago, she'd done the same – but she hadn't come back. Lori figured she'd found a guy she liked from among the long line of applicants for her attention. Kat had clung to Joel like a little girl at a horror movie whenever a knot of guys pressed close, which Lori thought had pleased as well as flustered the big geek.

Joel had headed off to the bar. Kat had looked over a guy's shoulder to ask her, "Where are the bathrooms?"

"For guys, a row of portables back of the bleachers. For the eye candy, real bathrooms back in the main house. Or if you don't mind the extra walk, the ones in the pool house at the end of the garden path."

"More girl-pampering?"

"They like to see us come back."

Once Lori was alone at the table, the tide of horn dawgs had surged briefly and then receded, leaving her with only two or three boys at a time offering half-clever talk and risqué suggestions. Now, for the first time since she'd sat down, a gap had opened and she was alone. She stood and stretched, resetting a lock of hair at the back of her neck that had found its way out of her bun.

"Lori Adler," a male voice intoned, "you look tasty as black licorice tonight."

Lori smiled, but didn't turn. "Is it Edgar or Ewan?"

"Can't you tell?"

"Not from that lame come-on. It could be either of you."

A pair of hands appeared at her waist. She slapped at them good-naturedly and turned. "Ewan."

The young man facing her was tall, crew-cut, blond, and nicely dressed in an all-black suit and tie; stones glittered at cuffs and tiepin and in a ring on his right hand. "Wrong. It's Edgar."

Lori shook her head. "Nope. Edgar knows better than to get handsy. You just don't learn." She touched a thumb to his lower lip. "Besides, when I split your lip, it left a little scar."

He reached for her hand, and she pulled it back quickly. He tried to look offended as he touched his lip in turn. "You know, that was totally uncalled-for, Lor. It was just a kiss."

"One, you didn't ask. Two, it wasn't just a kiss. You slipped your hand down the back of my pants."

"My hand had a mind of its own, and it knew right where it belonged. The fit was perfect." He smiled crookedly. "You're not still angry, are you? After two years?"

"No, not angry. But not interested, either." She turned to scan the crowd. "Where's your brother?"

"Right behind you." Ewan's twin stepped beside her. His hair was longer, and his suit a dark blue with a lighter shirt and patterned gray tie. "You're looking very nice tonight, Lori. Not that you don't look nice all the time, even when you're wearing black lipstick."

She smiled. "Edgar, would you try to convince your brother he'd be easier to like if he didn't act like he was on the make every second?"

"Only if it starts working for him. As it is, he practically drives them into my arms." Edgar scanned the crowd. "What happened to all your friends? You came in with a flock, I thought."

She looked around again. "Joel's on a trip to the bar. Caitlin's on a trip to the bathroom. Roxanne is MIA, but I'm sure she'll turn up. Melanie is talking to your uncle upstairs about playing for the Mixer next year."

Edgar clapped, five soft reports. Ewan said, "Except for the math professor, you're a stunning group. The photographer asked me to beg you on his behalf for a few shots."

She raised her eyebrows. "Well, sure. I thought he already took some."

Ewan shrugged. "He's having trouble getting your redheaded friend to hold still and face the camera. He's starting to feel like a paparazzi."

"No guarantees. She doesn't like having her picture taken, I don't know why." She looked around for her friends, or even a female she knew whom she could call to for reinforcements against these young wolves. "I presume you're waiting for them to get back so you can pounce. Be warned, Kat's with Joel tonight, and she's not the sort to ditch a date."

Ewan shook his head mock-sadly. "Lori, Lori. You know I'm here just for you. We both are."

She cocked an eyebrow at Edgar. He shrugged, smiling. "It's true. I stay close, hoping someday you'll see what a nice guy I am compared to him."

"I swear," she said, "sometimes it feels like I've been pushing you two away since I was ten."

"Well, you've been beating us up since you were ten. You've only been breaking our hearts since you were thirteen."

The conversation drifted on, Lori trading sallies with the two boys, whom she'd known since she was eight years old, sons of a friend of her father's. They'd been a lot easier to get along with before puberty, she thought. For one thing, she'd been half a head taller than the obnoxious brats, making it easy to settle disputes by shoving their faces in the grass. When that situation reversed at thirteen, the two boys had begun looking at her as if contemplating a wrestling match of another sort; the four-minutes-older brother, Ewan, had pressed her especially hard, and still did, every time they met. She actually thought they were cute, Edgar especially, but she knew that as boyfriends they'd be poison. So she kept them at arm's length and tried to stay friends, and they constantly tested her resolve. It helped that they were both still obnoxious.

On the other side of the empty dance floor, Lori saw a knot of girls looking her way, talking to one another and largely ignoring their orbiting constellation of male satellites. She recognized them from school because they were members of the music academy, although she didn't hang with them. They were the sort who thought of themselves as 'artists' rather than 'performers', and wouldn't dream of risking their careers by joining a garage band like the Sirens. Lori figured most of them would be doing advertising jingles or background music for video games a year after graduation.

Their apparent leader, a svelte wavy-haired blonde with a ruler-straight nose, was the exception. Kimberly Perlman, it was rumored, had had a free ride at Julliard before she'd been booted out at the end of her first year over a scandal involving several married teachers. Lori was ready to believe both particulars of the story. The girl was a musical prodigy, with an astounding singing voice and a mastery of six instruments Lori knew about; Lori would tell anybody that Kim was better on keyboard than she would probably ever be. The slinky blonde had a talent for collecting male admirers, as well, and seemed to enjoy the challenge of adding guys who were already spoken for to her trophy case. She hadn't gotten involved with any husbands at MacArthur, at least none Lori knew of, but she'd collected plenty of other girls' boyfriends. Lori thought that Kim was destined to be rich and-or famous in the world of music, if her little hobby didn't get her hands broken or something.

Kim glanced across the floor at her, spoke a few words to her companions – male and female both - and broke from the herd to head Lori's way. She stepped past Edgar, and the boy stopped talking mid-sentence. "Hey, Lori. Evil outfit."

"Thanks." Lori wondered if Kim had come to steal one of her admirers; perhaps if she mentioned the boys' years-long rivalry over her, the girl might take both. "Enjoying the party?"

"More than I expected, actually," Kim replied, with a brief smile to Edgar, the nearest of the boys. Lori saw him glance at his brother, trying to divvy up the femmes by body language.

Lori said, "Edgar, since you and Ewan are obviously never going to figure it out, I'll tell you. Kim and I are a couple."

"Spoilsport," Kim said. "I was going to see how long it took them to catch on."

"Really?" Ewan appraised the two of them. "If you're going to do something together, can I watch?"

"Okay," Lori said, "we're not a couple. But we're still lesbians. Totally uninterested in men. If you keep pestering us, we'll tell our girlfriends. You have no _idea_ how violent biker dykes can get until you hit on their sweeties."

"I can take a hint," Ewan said. "Girl talk." He caught his brother's eye, and they moved off. "Keep it warm for me, Lor." He touched a thumbnail to his lip. "Totally worth it."

Lori watched him go. "He's _so_ hard to dislike sometimes. Thank God he keeps giving me fresh reasons." She turned to the blonde-haired diva. "What's up?"

Kim lifted a glass to her lips: cut glass, unlike the clear plastic containers in use by the rest of the guests, and filled with ice and an amber liquid Lori was sure hadn't come from the open bar. "Word is, your band might be playing this gig next year."

Lori head-shrugged. "It's possible."

The girl took a sip. "A reference like that could get you enough appearances to make you some real money, and some real notice, if you managed it right. But it would mean ramping up from the once-a-month schedule you play now to a full calendar. There are sure to be conflicts with school or extracurrics. But you don't want to pass up a good gig or, God forbid, cancel, just because one of you can't make it. Have you given any thought to a sub yet?"

"Haven't thought that far ahead," Lori said cautiously. "It's hard enough keeping the roster filled. Who'd want to come to practice and learn our songbook just for the chance to fill in when one of us can't show?"

Kim lifted an eyebrow. "I wouldn't mind. If you stick with weekends for practice and performances." Kim had a concert schedule of her own, mostly weeknight shows in small auditoriums or rented halls, intimate settings for the local in-crowd and their guests, doubtless making a small fortune and collecting offers from record labels. "I don't think it would be too hard to pick up your song list, do you?"

Lori held down an internal grumble; she imagined the disgustingly talented bimbo could digest the Sirens' whole repertoire in a practice session or two. Instead, she tried to figure out what was behind Kim's unusual and generous offer. The girl was no more interested in bar gigs than her friends were; she hadn't answered either of the band's casting calls. "That would be good, I think, but I'll have to talk it over with the others."

The young diva nodded. "So," she said, "Where's the rest of the band tonight?"

Lori watched Kat making her way back from the bathroom through the press. She moved through the mostly-male crowd like an icebreaker, packing oglers up in front and trailing a swirling wake of admirers behind. "Alex is out with her sister. Bobby's camping."

"Hm. He does look like the outdoor type." She sipped her drink. "Is he with anybody right now?"

"His dad and a buddy, I think."

"In the band, I mean." The girl looked at Lori over the rim of her glass. "There's a betting pool, you know. All your names are in the hat. Even one bet marked 'all of the above'. My money's on you."

Lori's ears burned; she was sure she was blushing right through her makeup. "_No._ Whose business is it anyway?"

"Don't get hot. I've been to a couple of your shows. You guys have any idea how you look on stage together?"

"Well, you should see it from our side of the stage. The women in the crowd are like a pond full of piranhas."

Kim chuckled at that, then glanced at Kat, who had been stopped cold by a picket line of varsity types. One especially large specimen was pressing close, almost elbowing the others out of the way. "Didn't know _she _was here."

"She's with us." Joel appeared with his hands full of disposable plastic stemware filled with white wine of some sort and passed one to Lori. "It's not Sauvignon Blanc, that's for sure. But it's wet."

"What," Lori said, "they didn't throw open the wine cellar for the plebs?"

"Hardly. I think it came out of a box. Or maybe a drum." He offered one to Kim, but she waved a palm and showed him her glass. Lori took a second one, just to relieve him of the burden.

She glanced back toward her redheaded companion. Kat was chatting with the big jock, and they were both smiling, so maybe a rescue wasn't called for just yet. Kat glanced their way, spoke a few words to her dawg, and headed towards them alone. Joel said, "Mel's not back, I take it?"

"I wouldn't count on her joining the party anytime soon," Lori said. "Those dirty old men will expect to be charmed into a decision, even if they made it before she walked through the door."

Kat joined them, almost brushing against Joel. "Whew." She nodded at Kim. "Hi."

"Kim." The diva offered a hand without waiting for an introduction. "Caitlin, right?" She smiled at Joel. "And you're Melanie's genius brother."

"She's only got one brother, so I suppose so," he said.

Kim tittered as if he'd said something actually funny. "Enjoying the party?"

"I'm enduring the party."

"I know _exactly _what you mean."

Lori said, "Kat. Who's that guy you were talking with?"

"Gary? He's a student at USC. We didn't get around to his field of study, but he's on the diving team. Ten-meter board."

"Hm," Kim said. "I'll bet he's built like a Greek statue. All those guys are."

"He says he's watched a couple of our games."

Joel frowned "Games?"

"Water polo. He says I have great form."

"Hmph." Lori looked past the big redhead into the crowd. The aqua-jock was still where Kat had left him, watching. "Has he been to a game since they got you a suit that fits?"

Kat shrugged at that, then readjusted her shoulder strap. "It doesn't matter so much for a goalie. I hardly ever have more than my head and neck out of the water."

A few guys drifted their way, introduced themselves, and took up station nearby, waiting for an opportunity to join the conversation. Kat slipped her hand between Joel's side and his elbow and rested it on his forearm. "I hear you're meeting with a headhunter Monday."

Joel offered Kat his untouched glass; she took a sip and gave it back unself-consciously. "Just some IT firm I never heard of. The offer won't be much."

"It's a start." Kat's other hand came to rest on his forearm as well; Lori wondered if the girl knew how possessive she looked. Her grip, combined with nearly a foot of height difference, made Joel look like a pet. "You're on your way."

Kim flicked a glance at the pair, then at Lori before speaking to Joel. "You two are partners, right?"

"Lab partners," Joel said. "Till the end of the semester." He grinned at the big redhead hanging on his arm. "My next one's going to be a huge letdown."

Kat's eyebrows gathered. "I thought you were done with lab classes."

"At work, I mean. I won't take a job that doesn't let me do research. Hopefully I'll be working with people I don't have to carry."

"Again," Kim said with a glance across the dance floor, "I know _exactly_ what you're talking about. Do you ever come to watch the band?"

Joel took a sip from his glass, made a face, and offered it to Kat again. "No. My eardrums suffer enough from the practice sessions in the garage."

Lori said, "I can hurt you."

"Like I said, you already have."

"So, you practice at home? That sounds convenient." Kim went on, "Joel, I know you must be busy getting ready for graduation and the job market, but you should cultivate the arts a little, just to nourish your soul. If not music, then maybe painting and sculpture. I know some people at the Broad, and LACMA too. We could get a private tour."

_Shameless,_ Lori thought. _He's got a girl hanging on his arm, and the little bimbo's trying to make a date with him._

"Sounds like fun." Kat sighted on the blonde diva with a look that excluded everyone else in the room; Lori imagined a sniper sighting through a scope. "If Joel can't find the time, maybe we could do something."

"Sure," Kim said without enthusiasm, then looked past Caitlin. "The big hunk from the dive team's still looking at you."

"He could look for a year and never see me," Kat said. She took a sip from Joel's glass and passed it back.

Joel moved his trapped arm slightly. "Trying to make him jealous?"

"Bite your tongue. Hard."

One of the boys surrounding them stepped a little closer. "Kimberly Perlman. I thought I recognized you. I was at your concert two weeks ago at the Rialto. You were incredible."

"Yes," Kim said. "Lori, get back with me on that, will you? Nice to meet you, Kat." She gave Joel a brilliant smile. "Joel, if you ever want to see me perform, just let me know." She left, headed back towards her group, not waiting for her admirer to follow.

"Hmp." Lori watched her go. "I wonder what sort of 'performance' she was offering you."

Kat watched her as well. "What did she want?" Her hands slipped off Joel's forearm.

Lori smiled. _So it wasn't all the boys that set off your alarms. _"She offered to sub for the band before our growing fame makes bookings a burden."

"What did she really want?"

_Bookish she might be, but she's no fool. _"Actually, I think she wants a chance to count coup on Bobby." She smiled at Joel. _And maybe you, now. She's probably wetting her pants at the idea of stealing 'Fantasy' Fairchild's boyfriend._ "She seems to think he's the band toy-boy."

"She's wasting her time," Kat said.

"I don't know." Kim had rejoined the group across the way; a few of them were looking this way and talking together with smug expressions. "She's pretty smooth, I hear. She can take a guy from polite to compromised before he knows what happened."

Kat shook her head. "Not Bobby. There are lines he won't cross, and they're not fuzzy. Expect her to quit coming to practice after a couple weeks."

Gary the Diver Boy watched them for another second, then turned away and merged with the crowd. Lori and Joel watched him go; Kat carefully looked elsewhere.

"I'm not sure that little show had the desired effect," Joel said. "It might just have given him the idea you're approachable. I doubt he really sees me as competition."

"You're not," Kat said. "There is no competition."

Twenty minutes later, Lori was sighing again. Kat and Joel had started talking about schoolwork that had, predictably, moved way past their current curriculum, and light-years beyond Lori's understanding. The hangers-on had drifted away. _Not much chance of inserting themselves in __this__ conversation._ She finally said, "I wondered how long you two could be together without talking about muons and dark matter. I only understand about one word in ten, and only because that's how often one of you says 'the'."

"Sorry," Kat said. "It's a geek thing. An idea comes into our heads, and we have to chase it down. I promise I won't talk about the evolution of the gravitational constant for the rest of the night."

"Don't sweat it," she said. "Maybe I'll just circulate a little. I know quite a few-"

"Excuse me." A male voice at Lori's shoulder. "You play keyboard with the Sirens, don't you?" Diction so precise it sounded like an accent.

She turned her head to regard the new arrival and got a surprise: the boy standing at her shoulder was _definitely_ not your average horn dawg. Or frat boy. Short black hair, dark complexion, Middle Eastern or Indian, maybe. Face oval rather than round, narrow-featured. Skin smooth, but without that soft shiny appearance people from that part of the world sometimes had, that made you imagine you could rub their cheeks and get oil on your fingers.

She realized he was speaking. "I've been going to your performances since I first saw you at Club Bijou last year. You're all wonderful. Though, I have to say, I think replacing your second guitar was a good move. The blond guy is very good." A slight change in emphasis on the last remark, she thought, as if he wanted to ask something without asking it.

She said, "Are you gay, by any chance?"

He raised his eyebrows and blinked. He had very nice eyes, she decided, dark chocolate in color and big-lashed, almost girl-pretty. His brows were dark and well-defined, not thick or bushy; she wondered if he did anything with them. "That's a very personal question," he said without any sign of embarrassment, "considering we haven't even traded names."

"Just want to know which of us you're interested in." His hair was coarser than hers, and looked a little shaggy, as if he was trying to grow it out. "That's important to get straight right away, don't you think?"

He flicked a glance at Joel and Kat, who'd stopped talking. "On stage, you seem very comfortable together. I was thinking he might be your boyfriend."

She shook her head slightly, not taking her eyes off him. "No. He's cute, and I like him, but he's not for me."

"Good." He offered a hand. "Call me Rej."

"Lori." Hands not baby-soft, but not callused either. He didn't really shake her hand, just closed his hand around hers, the fingertips moving slightly as if he was exploring her skin. "Where are you from, Rej?"

"South Carolina." A corner of his mouth turned up. "But maybe that's not what you're asking?"

"No."

"I'm Persian. My mother and father left Iran a step behind the Shah, they tell me. I was born here." He tilted his head towards the wood floor. "Dance?"

"The band's not done yet." It wouldn't be long. The codgers were playing a slow dance; they always ended each set with two or three, just before they went on break.

"This isn't so bad, really. You should hear what my parents listen to at home. It sounds like a cat trapped in the dryer." He offered a hand.

She slid off her stool. She stood a couple of inches taller than him, but getting out of her boots was a ten-minute job she wasn't prepared to undertake in public. Fortunately, he didn't seem to notice. She took his hand. "Lead on."

On the empty dance floor, she slipped her hands around his waist instead of doing the handclasp-and-shoulder thing, and was pleased when he cupped her elbows, letting her choose the distance between them. She said, "You know, it's _not_ bad." The ballad the old boys were playing was strange to her, but the melody was simple and kind of nice; slow tunes required less technical skill, and they were actually handling it rather well.

He nodded. "They do some good slow dances. But, by the time they play them, no one's listening anymore."

"You're a student?"

"Aeronautical engineering. I'd love to help NASA build a better Shuttle. You?"

"Filmmaking. I'd love to do documentaries about, oh, maybe a thousand things."

He smiled. He had even white teeth. "So much for the big dreams. What do you do now? Besides play enchanting music?"

"I paint. I don't exhibit, but sometimes I give them away."

"I'd love to see."

She smiled. "Care to come upstairs and see my etchings?"

His brows gathered. "Etchings?"

She shook her head. "What about you?"

"Nothing in my field. I work part-time in my father's office. He owns a shipping company."

She lifted her eyebrows. "Really."

He nodded. "We ship packages overnight to three states. We even have our own trucks. Is your father a businessman?"

"Yes. He has a shipping company too."

"What a coincidence. I hope we're not in competition."

She forebore to say that her father's shipping company owned actual ships. "I don't think so. He doesn't do overnight deliveries. What about your mom? Does she work?"

"No way. Mother and Father both would be scandalized at the very idea."

"What do they think about America? And Americans?" _And American women?_

He shrugged. "They've been living here for thirty years with no intentions of ever going back. Naturalized before I was born. They like America. They don't have any trouble getting along with individuals, but they think, in general, Americans never really grow up: they live too much in the moment, with no respect for the past and no regard for the future. I guess 'good-natured contempt' just about covers it."

"Hm." They weren't doing much more than swaying to the music. She turned, testing him; he followed her lead clumsily, taken by surprise, but not resisting. "Rej, are you one of those Middle Eastern guys who acts all liberal and tolerant while he courts a Western girl, and then turns all domineering and possessive once he gets her?"

"Like I said, I was born here."

"Wouldn't matter, necessarily."

He held her eyes. "I would never pursue a woman only to change her. I'd much rather find a perfect one to begin with."

"That can't be easy."

"I don't know. I think sometimes God takes a hand in such things." His eyes dropped from her face. "I wondered if the clothes and makeup were costume, for the stage. But they're not, are they?"

"No. This is what I like. Comment?"

"Unconventional. A little intimidating. But exciting."

She smiled. "It does show a little more skin than usual, but it's that kind of party."

"I wasn't talking about the clothes."

The song ended, and they stood still, still holding each other, waiting to see what would follow; the DJ was due. Neither of them suggested leaving the dance floor. Lori hoped the canned music would start with something slow.

But the old boys, instead of filing off the podium to the bar, seemed to be having a discussion. They reached a decision and stayed in place. She was surprised to see them fiddling with their stand-mounted mikes, bringing the pickups closer to their faces. The guy with the comb-over who manned the keyboard started a slow, simple intro. The drummer stirred his brushes softly over his cans, a sensual sound. The other two men left their instruments on the stands and moved close to their mikes, and one of them began to sing, for the first time all night.

_My love must be a kind of blind love…_

His voice, scratchy on the first couple of words, mellowed and deepened.

_I can't see anyone but you._

The other three leaned into their mikes and said in unison, "Shabop shabop," faces serious as if they were in the middle of a boardroom discussion. "Shabop shabop."

Lori tittered, smiling; Rej smiled and tightened his hold on her, and they swayed gently to the music.

_Are the stars out tonight?_

_I don't know if it's cloudy or bright_

_Cause I only have eyes_

_For you, dear_

"Your eyes," he said. "Does that color have a name?"

She smiled. "Brown."

"Brown," he said, nodding, as if committing it to memory.

_The moon may be high_

_But I can't see a thing in the sky_

_I only have eyes for you_

"We don't practice," Lori said, "But my dad's family is Jewish." She watched his face carefully.

He watched her with equal care. "And you think this would change something?"

"Wouldn't it?"

_I don't know if we're in a garden_

_Or on a crowded avenue_

"Maybe. But we're Christians. Coptic. Another reason my parents left."

"So, it's not a problem?"

_You are here, so am I_

_Maybe millions of people go by_

_But they all disappear_

_From view_

_And I only have eyes_

_For you._

"It could be." He held her eyes. "The children would have to be raised Christian."

She lifted an eyebrow. "Children?"

"Like you said. It's best to get some things out of the way early."

-0-

"Look at them." Kat watched Lori with the guy who'd maneuvered her onto the dance floor. "Do you think they'd even notice if the music stopped?"

Joel didn't answer. He was watching the couple as they stood holding each other without pressing together, smiling into each other's eyes as they talked. It made him think of the night before with Alex, lying nose-to-nose on the motel bed in Santa Monica after making love. They'd talked for hours. He couldn't remember much of the conversation, but he remembered her voice and her little chuckle and the smell of her hair. And he remembered the look of welcome in her eyes when he'd ended the night's talk by pulling her to him.

"Joel," Kat went on, still watching the dancers, "do you believe in love at first sight?"

"I believe in lust at first sight. Love may follow a while later. That, or homicidal urges."

"Well, I do." The light went out of her eyes as her stare unfocused. "But I don't think it's necessarily a good thing. You can feel hopelessly drawn to someone who's all wrong for you. You can't explain it, but you can't ignore it, even if you never act on it, and it… skews your chance for a relationship with anyone else."

He thought of Bobby Lynch, whom Mel suspected was an ex-boyfriend of Kat's that she hadn't fully let go of, and of Gordie's revelations about Bobby's dark past. A guy like that would be all wrong for Kat, but he drew girls to him like bugs to a zapper, and they were sharing a roof besides. "Knowing it's irrational must help you deal with it, though."

"Rationality has nothing to do with how you feel. It has everything to do with the look in his eye, his smile, his voice, the way his hands explore everything they touch. The…" She stopped. Joel saw two faint spots of color on her cheeks under the makeup. She picked her purse up off the table. "I'm headed for the bathroom. If Roxy shows up, have her wait for me, okay?" She strode carefully in her heels towards the exit like a sailboat headed for the channel.

The song ended. Lori's boyfriend-candidate turned to the band and clapped. Lori joined in. the four geezers beamed like it was the first applause they'd gotten all night – which it was. The DJ moved to his console, and the musicians left. A crowd began to accrete on the wooden floor, and Lori took the guy's hand and led him off, headed towards the table.

"Where is everybody?" Lori asked.

"Kat headed for the bathroom again. She must have a bladder the size of a pea. The other two are still gone." He turned to the Indian-looking guy still holding Lori's hand. "We don't share classes, but I've seen you around."

The guy nodded. He was holding Lori's right hand in his left; he offered his right to Joel. "You're almost done, I'm a freshman. Reginald Fahir. Friends call me Rej."

"Joel." After the shake was over, he went on, "Lori's only got a year left, did she tell you?"

"No." He smiled, and Lori drew a little closer. "It didn't come up."

"So, older women aren't a problem for you?" He avoided looking at Lori's face, sure she was glaring at him. _Payback's a bitch, Lor._

"No," Rej said. "No more than taller women are for you."

"Or smarter ones," Lori put in. "But it's a recent improvement. You'll have to try harder than that, Reed."

Rej said, "Reed?"

"Like Reed Richards, from the Fantastic Four." She smiled at her sort-of date. "You know, comic books?"

He frowned. "Surely you don't read _comic books_. An educated woman like you?"

"Hmph," she said. "Modern comic books aren't all kid stuff, not by a long shot. Some of the artwork is worth hanging. And the writing is as good as anything Burroughs or London or Doyle ever put on paper."

"If you say so." He lowered his eyelashes. "Will you be willing to educate me?"

Lori lowered hers as well. "Only about things you don't already know something about. At least for now."

Joel felt uncomfortable. "Uh, Kat's been gone quite a while. I think I'll take a look around."

At the entrance to the tent, he paused and looked around. In her heels, Kat was topping out at about six-ten, literally head and shoulders above the crowd; even barefoot, she would have been easy to spot. But she was nowhere in sight in the crowd between the big house and the tent. The ladies' room was just inside the door. Red-faced, he asked a girl coming out if a tall redhead was in there, and got a negative. "Unless she's in a stall," the girl said, looking at him like he might be a stalker. He couldn't blame her; he was sure he looked like an unlikely date for any girl at this party. He wondered if she'd tell him the truth if she'd seen Kat in there.

"Thanks," he said, and moved away. Lori had said there were more bathrooms at a pool house elsewhere on the property. He asked a few people, and was soon walking down a landscaped path towards the back of the property, passing between mature trees. The crowd thinned to nothing before he saw the building, an L-shaped brick structure enclosing a good-sized pool on two sides. The place had just a couple of bikini-clad loungers by the pool, and no sign of Kat. Rather than ask directions to the ladies' room, he decided to circle the building once and then go in. He was just approaching the back of the structure when he heard voices.

"I appreciate the invitation, Gary," he heard Kat say. "Your friend's party sounds interesting. Really. But I'm already here, and I'm with friends."

"You'd still be with friends," a guy's voice, coaxing; something about it made Joel think of steroid enhancement. "I'd be with you. And I know everybody'd _love_ to meet you."

Joel rounded the corner. Kat was standing with her back to the wall; the big lug who'd been chatting with her earlier was standing close enough to lay a hand on her without stretching. He leaned closer and started talking again, and Kat blinked a couple of times. His eyelids had that heavy, droopy look that sometimes comes from one too many brewskis; Joel figured his breath must be drying her eyes out. "Come on. Let's blow this joint and have some fun."

"Gary, I met you less than an hour ago, and we talked for five minutes. We're not friends. We're barely acquaintances. Thanks, but no." She stepped sideways along the wall, moving to rejoin the party.

"Whoa, wait a minute." He put an arm out and leaned against the wall, barring her way. "You don't want to leave."

Without any thought or hesitation, Joel walked up on them. He put a hand on the guy's tree-like bicep. "You heard her, buddy. Why don't you find a girl who's interested? How hard could it be?"

Without looking his way, the big gorilla swung his forearm and shoved Joel away. He stumbled backwards and almost fell. "Go back to the punchbowl, geek. We're trying to have a conversation."

Joel felt a weird mix of embarrassment and anger. Then Kat's face clouded, and apprehension crowded out everything else. He was sure she was about to do something, and Joel was afraid it would be something she'd regret later. He stepped forward again, ready for a split lip or worse if he could just get her away from here.

"The conversation's over," Lori said. She stepped past Joel and came up behind the hulk to tap his shoulder. "She said she's not _interested_, King Kong. Get out of here before you embarrass yourself any more."

"You should talk, corpse bride. Your old man's been telling people you're adopted." He turned back to Kat. "It's getting crowded. And noisy. What say we go someplace quiet, before I have to shut somebody up."

Kat nodded stiffly. Down at her side, her right fist opened and closed a couple of times, as if she was pumping up a vein for a needle. "Someplace quiet. Just us two."

The big lug grinned. If the guy had a molecule of sense, Joel thought, he would have taken one good look at her face and stepped back.

But Kat's eyes widened in surprise when Gary jerked upright as if he'd just been goosed. Joel heard a crackling sizzle. "Huuh!" Gary leaned forward stiffly, and Kat stepped aside as he thumped the wall with his forehead. He dropped to his knees and bent double, upper arms tight to his sides and forearms sticking out in front like T-Rex arms, until his head almost touched the concrete. "Ahh. Ah, _Jesus_."

Lori returned the stun gun to her purse and zipped it shut. "I am adopted," she said lightly, as if she was just making conversation. "And if you think any girl looks like me comes to a frat party unarmed, you're dumber than you look. And that's saying something."

"Bitch," he squeezed out.

Lori opened the zipper again, looking at Gary's upraised rump with cool eyes. "That earns you one in the crotch."

"_No._" Kat grabbed her arm and pulled her away. She hooked Joel's elbow as she went by, and steered them all down the path towards the main house. "Joel, what were you _doing_? It looked like you were about to tackle him."

"Yeah, Reed." Lori's lips curved in a smile. "What _were_ you doing?"

"I thought I might keep him busy long enough for her to get away."

"And _why_," she pressed, "would you do that?"

"Well…" He fumbled for words as Caitlin towed him along. "Because… Oh, for cripes sakes."

"Just say it," Lori said gently. "It only hurts the first time, Reed, promise."

"She's my friend," he said.

Kat hugged his arm a little tighter. "Thanks, both of you, but I didn't need the rescue. I can take care of myself."

"Hmp." Lori glanced back; Joel and Kat did likewise. Gary was just getting to hands and knees, wobbling. "You're a big girl, Kat, but he still had fifty pounds on you. And it didn't look like he was going to take 'no' for an answer."

"Bobby's dad is very big on self-defense training for girls," the big redhead said. "He'd have taken 'no' for an answer."

Joel looked at Lori. "How'd you find us?"

"I just remembered who I was looking for. Of _course_ she'd use the most out-of-the-way bathroom she could find."

"I'm getting worried about Roxy," Kat said, opening her purse. "I haven't seen her in hours. Some of these guys are turning obnoxious, and I'm not sure how she'd handle a pushy guy right now."

A phone chimed. Caitlin reached into her purse and flipped it open. "Hello?" She stopped, bringing Joel and Lori to a halt. "I was just about to call. Where are you?" She listened, and her eyes widened. "Roxy…" She took the phone away from her ear and stared at it a moment.

"Kat," Lori said, "what's wrong?"

The big redhead put her phone away, her lips thinned to a line. "She's gone."

36


	15. The Dating Game, Part 2

**A/N: Regular readers take note: this story contains three new chapters posted almost back-to-back.**

Roxanne stood outside the front door of the frat, leaning against one of the big white columns and admiring the parking valets while she smoked. They were all college-age guys, and they all looked so cute, she thought, in their slacks and shirts and ties and red vests. They looked especially tasty when they were running for a parked car and their slacks stretched over their hineys.

Sightseeing out front with a cig was better entertainment than what was going on inside. The music was tedious, and the dancing painful to watch. Nobody was having any real fun. Half the people present were just playing the social-network game: seeing and being seen, touching base with their peers, trading a little gossip. Others, the sort who didn't usually pass the gates, were trying to impress one another in ridiculously bad imitation of the socials, or else were mingling listlessly, fish out of water. None of the social boys had brought a girl of his class to the party – a telling fact - and every presentable unattached female had a circle of guys trying to score. It just reminded her too much of a bad lunch period at MacArthur.

Some of the boys were pretty, though, and some of the cars they drove were fine, too. A lot of money had been invited to this party, and it showed by the selections in the lot: plenty of European metal, with the occasional glittering Detroit classic. She'd drooled over an immaculate early-Seventies Stingray driven by a guy whose dad probably hadn't been born when it rolled off the assembly line. At second look, the guy had been all right too, if you liked glasses. She took a puff and waited for the next sample.

An engine whirred. Under the canopy rolled a white Jag XK convertible with its top up, a sleek low shape with a hood a mile long. Roxy smiled in anticipation. The driver's door opened up, and she nearly dropped her cigarette. The guy handing his keys and a banknote to the valet was the blond boy who'd been eying her up that morning on the beach in back of the house.

She ducked behind the pillar, her mind racing. _As soon as he goes inside, he'll spot Kat. He's sure to recognize her from this morning. He'll ask if anybody knows her, and ten minutes later every guy in the room will know where we live._

A desperate, half-formed plan came to mind. She reappeared from behind the column just as he was turning towards the house. She leaned casually against the pillar again. He took a couple of steps up the short walk and noticed her just as she said, "Hey. Boat boy."

It took him a bare moment to recognize her. She'd been wearing a minimum of makeup for sunbathing, of course, and now had on her 'forty minute face', the one she applied when she wanted to look old enough to purchase booze or cigarettes. But the purple-trimmed hair was distinctive and fresh in his memory, she imagined; her eyes were, too, if the glances of her he'd stolen during the volleyball session had lingered that far up. He smiled. "_Heyy._"

"Where's the rest of the jolly crew?" _Please, let them be someplace else. This won't work if he's not alone._

"Still on the boat. I think they're spending the night off Catalina. I had some things to do, so they dropped me off. What about yours?"

"T.J. I'm bored with that. A couple friends invited me to this, but I've hardly seen them all night." She offered him a hand. "Roxanne."

He took it. "Eric." His eyes flicked over her. "Nice outfit. Not as nice as the last one I saw you in, though."

She smiled as if flattered by the lame line. "Love your car. I'll bet it rides like a dream."

"Zero to sixty in five seconds, and it steers like it's on rails. What are you doing out here?"

She lifted her cigarette and took a drag. "This, for one. Also, I'm bored to tears. I'd like to bail, but my ride won't be here for hours yet." Having planted the seed, she watched, smiling, as it took root.

"Listen," he said, "I need to go in here and mingle for a few. But when I come out, maybe you'd like to go for a drive?"

She took another hit off the cig and pulled her silver cigarette case out of her purse. She stubbed the cigarette out and stuck it in the case, looking out over the arriving and departing cars. "I might be gone by then. I really don't know how much longer I can stand it here." A young man had just passed the keys to his Mustang to the valet and started up the walk; she smiled at him, and he smiled back, his eyes flicking from her to Eric and back as he passed by.

Eric gave the valet a two-finger wave. "Bring back my car, please."

Eric dropped the top and pointed the Jag west. Roxanne noted that he didn't try to show off for her; he drove defensively and never exceeded the speed limit. She thought maybe he was making for the Coast Highway. She hoped not, and not only because it would take her a long way from her friends; the section of PCH between San Diego and L.A. was about the most unscenic drive she could imagine, all multilane concrete troughs decorated with spray paint. Then the car swung south, winding through low hills in the general direction of La Jolla and the beach house, as if he was just taking her home by a roundabout route.

He turned on the radio. Soft jazz drifted out of a dozen speakers. "What kind of music do you like?"

"Anything you can dance to, pretty much," she said.

"You like to dance? What kind?"

"Modern, mostly. A little classical. I might get into Latin someday."

Eric's hand never touched the radio, but the music switched to a thumping house track. "Plan to make a living at it?"

_CD changer? _"No. I think that would take the fun out of it. You know, we don't have to listen to dance tunes. How about some mood music? Electronica's good."

The track changed again, to a mellow tune by Boards of Canada; on the dark road lit only by their headlights, it was cool and a little spooky. _Not a CD changer. He's got one of those satellite radios with a hundred commercial-free channels and musical-style presets. Controls on the steering wheel, too, so he can change it in a blink. He does aim to please, doesn't he?_

"Like your hair," her driver said. "On you. Wouldn't work for every girl, for sure. You ever think about growing it out?"

"Nope. It's easy to take care of. I spend too much time in front of the mirror already."

"Every minute shows."

"Thanks. They told me this party was dressy; I just wanted to be worthy."

The asphalt disappeared beyond the headlights, and the street signs floated out of the dark almost as they were on them; she hoped he knew the road. She'd been hoping to come across a gas station or something, so she could duck into a bathroom and call her sister in private, before she was missed, and warn her. But Eric looked to be taking them far from civilization. To the left and ahead, she could see lights some distance below before a fork in the road took them out of sight.

Eric slowed the car as the road narrowed. "I thought you looked fantastic just dressed for the beach. Not just you, all of you. Like you were just waiting around for the photographer to show up. I hope you're not just houseguests." He smiled at the windshield. "It'd be nice to know you're going to be around awhile."

She smiled. "All of us, you mean?"

"Well, I do have friends."

"Sister, brother's girlfriend, and the little blonde's the housekeeper. Not enough to go around, I'm afraid."

"Shame." They approached an intersection, just two roads meeting in the middle of nowhere, lit by a single pole light and marked by four stop signs. She noted that he brought the car to a complete stop for a two-count before taking his foot off the brake. He hung a left, and they were gliding through the darkness again. "Your sister must work extra hard on that tan. Waste of time, I think. Girls with skin like yours look better without."

Roxanne was confused for a moment until it hit her. _He thinks Sarah's my sister, not Kat. _She imagined the four of them as they must have appeared from the beach. _Same color hair, and my figure is __way__ closer to Sarah's than Kat's. _She remembered that Sarah had four sisters back on the rez, all sloe-eyed Amerind beauties with long dark hair. _What will she say when I tell her somebody took us for sibs?_

"That smile looks good on you," he said. "Kind of mischievous. What's it about?"

"Oh," she said, "Just wondering what she'd say if somebody told her she was working too hard on her tan."

The road forked again, and he took the left branch without slowing. She realized that she no longer had any idea of their direction. The sky was cloudy, and the moon and stars hidden from view. She caught a chill and shivered.

"You want the top up? Or I can turn on the heater."

She crossed her arms in front of her, feeling goosebumps on her upper arms and her pokies pressing against her forearms like buttons. "Let's try the heater first. I don't want to give up the fresh air. I just wish I'd brought a jacket."

The heater came on, sending warm air across her legs, and her thighs broke out as well. She watched the dark hills rush by. Eventually she warmed up. "Better." She smiled. "Blood must be thinned out from all the time in the sun."

"Hm." The road widened to four lanes. He swung the car into the right lane and turned right. "What do you do for a living, Roxanne?"

She shifted a leg. "Still in school. What about you? Is that your frat?"

"I'm an alum. Graduated last year."

_Which makes him twenty-two or –three. _She ran a hand along the window sill. "Looks like you didn't waste any time making your fortune."

"Trust fund. But I do all right on my own. I'm pulling down eighty grand a year at my law firm. And I'm on the fast track to make partner."

_Eric, you know where I live. Are you really trying to impress me with your money?_ "Lawyer, huh? That explains."

"Explains what?"

"Talking comes easy to you."

"Is that good or bad?"

"Depends on what you've got to say."

"You've got the most gorgeous eyes," he said. "Sorry, couldn't help it. Every guy you've ever met must have told you the same thing. I'm sure you get tired of hearing it."

_Straight out of the playbook_, she thought. _Separate the quarry from her support group, and get her alone as soon as you can without spooking her. Keep the compliments above the neck till she warms up and you're sure she'll be receptive. A little touch of uncertainty to help her feel in control, and a little vulnerability to make her sympathetic. Very smooth, Eric. _The little exchange brought home that she was engaged in serious business. Her plan had seemed simple enough: to entice him away from the frat house until Mel could finish her business and get Kat out of there, then 'tire' and ask for a ride home. But she couldn't do that for a while yet, and things seemed to be getting more complicated by the minute.

_You're not playing with some teenage boy, Roxanne. This guy has more experience handling women than you do handling boys, years more. He isn't used to being refused anything. And he obviously wants something you're not prepared to give. Be very careful with him. _"Not always," she said, running the leather seat all the way to the rear and lowering its back halfway, obviously settling in – and, _quite_ incidentally, giving him a better view. "It depends on the guy." She put her hands behind her head, raised her elbows, and stretched. She was rewarded with a tiny swerve as the hand on the wheel followed his eyes. She smiled out the window at the sky, pretending not to notice.

The road abruptly rose in front of them, and the car slowed as it climbed, following a gentle curve.

She sat up. "Where are we going?"

"Just a place I like to see at night."

The car crested the rise, and Roxy said, "Ooh." On her side of the road, the ground dropped away, and a galaxy of lights spread out below, unevenly distributed along the slopes and valleys. "Pretty."

"I'd pull over, but it really isn't safe. Somebody could come tearing around the curve and hit us with no warning."

"Sokay." She glanced over to him as the car began to descend and the hill blocked the view. "Got any other scenic destinations in mind?"

He hesitated. "My place is ten minutes away," he said. "I'd like you to see it. But if you'd rather not…"

If she refused, she thought, he'd probably turn the car around and take her back to the party, and this whole trip would be a waste. Kat wouldn't leave the party without her, Roxy was certain, and would call as soon as she missed her. Roxy needed a chance to call and give her sister a heads-up. _Should have done it before we left. Just excuse myself to go to the bathroom… but would he have waited out front for me?_

The road ended at a T-junction. Eric brought the car to a halt behind the stop sign. "Left turn takes us back to the party. Right turn…"

She swallowed, hoping he didn't see. "Take a right," she said. "I'd like to see how you live."

Eric's place was a stuccoed hacienda-style set on a big lot among low hills. She could see lights inside, burning welcomingly behind patterned translucent blinds. The driveway curved around the house and ended at a double-width garage door hidden from the street. He pressed a button on the overhead console, and the door rose to reveal an empty two-space garage, and a regular door that doubtless led inside. _He can bring guests home, and no one would ever see them enter or leave. Reassuring or ominous, depending. _He opened the car door for her, then the door inside, which made her feel like a sheep being guided to the shearing shed.

She took a step inside and halted. Behind her, Eric said, "What do you think?"

"Cozy. And very male." The kitchen, dining, and living areas were combined in an open floorplan that made maximum use of the space, which was nevertheless smaller than she'd expected. The ceiling angled up, rising to maybe eleven or twelve feet along one wall. The floor was wood planks with thick rugs under the furniture. A couple of doorways flanked the kitchen; the left-hand one was a pair of pocket doors that would open up to five or six feet. Everything about the furnishings said 'bachelor crib': the leather sofa with the Mexican throw and widescreen TV over the fireplace in the living room; the island kitchen with utensils hung from a wrought-iron hoop suspended from the ceiling; the pool table and foosball game in one corner. A couple of pictures hung on the walls, pieces whose colors went well with the décor; after a few weeks of living surrounded by Mr. Lynch's collection, they didn't rate a second glance from her. Everything was neat and uncluttered, but not obsessively so; more like he'd picked up for company. _Uh-oh._

She examined the room again. The sofa was a six-footer, even though the room was big enough for a full-size or even a sectional, and there were no chairs. She looked again at the game tables: two-player games. There was no dining table, just the bar at the kitchen island and two stools. Eric's place was set up for entertaining… but not for parties. Two couples would be a capacity crowd.

He said, "Those shoes can't be comfortable. Leave them at the door, why don't you? Then go wiggle your toes in the rug. It feels great at the end of the day."

She looked up at him; even with the heels on, she was five or six inches shorter. "If I do, promise not to laugh."

"Why would I laugh?"

"Because I don't think I'll come up to your chin with them off."

"Proof that the best things sometimes come in small packages." He offered a steadying hand.

With her hand lightly held in his, she undid the shoes' straps one foot at a time and slipped them off, and her feet throbbed with relief. She moved to the rug in front of the couch, and her feet sank into the thick pile. It felt heavenly. She closed her eyes, tipped her head back, and sighed a couple times, wiggling her toes, until the stiffness disappeared from her feet and calves. She lifted her arms over her head and stretched her upper body as well, arching her back and rolling her shoulders.

She opened her eyes. Eric was watching her, intent, almost spellbound. She said, "What?"

He blinked. "Just enjoying the look on your face. Very much."

She felt a touch of warmth at her ears. "Someplace I can freshen up?"

He moved toward the kitchen. "Bathroom's the door to the right."

The bathroom's layout was odd. The toilet and washbasin were alone in the room; she presumed that a door set opposite the one she'd entered contained the tub. She opened the taps in the sink, then she flipped open her phone and tapped out Kat's number; whatever trick Mr. Lynch used to make their cellphones trace-proof didn't permit the numbers to be stored on speed dial.

Kat picked up on the first ring. "_Hello?_"

"It's me. Did you miss me yet?" A silly question; if Kat had noticed she was gone, Roxy's phone would have buzzed a hole in her purse by now.

"_I was just about to call. Where are you?_"

"I left the party. Don't panic, I'm fine. There was something I had to do."

"_Roxy…_"

"I'll see you at home before curfew. I'll explain then. Just head for home as soon as Melanie sews up the deal And don't call back." She disconnected and set the phone to silent mode, just in case. She shut off the taps just in time to hear a _pop_ from the kitchen. Then she opened the big mirror door over the sink to examine the medicine cabinet.

_Uh oh_, she thought again. _Looks like Eric's a Boy Scout._ The big cabinet held a few guy articles like deodorant and such, but half the shelves contained travel-size bottles and tubes in pastel colors, feminine stuff: shampoo, shower gel, deodorant, lotion, baby powder. A toothbrush, still in its plastic packaging, lay on one shelf, next to a brush and combs that she was sure were brand new. The bathroom had been provisioned to accommodate a female guest who hadn't planned to spend the night. She unscrewed the tops of a couple of the little bottles. They were all full. _Bet he replaces any used ones as soon as she leaves._ She started to put them back on the shelf and froze, remembering. The last time she'd looked into a bathroom cabinet full of sample bottles had been her last night as a student at Darwin. There was no connection, but the memory sent ice up her spine anyway.

She eyed the bathroom's unopened door, grasped the knob, and swung it open. The bathing area was big enough to throw a party in, with a two-seat Jacuzzi tub in one corner and a walk-in shower next to it. The stall was built-in, oversized, with floor-to-ceiling tiles, multiple controls and shower heads, and clear glass doors. _Bachelor crib, definitely. _Next to the towel bar hung a pair of white terrycloth robes, very thick and soft and luxurious. _So she needn't feel in a rush to get back in her clothes._ Set in the wall opposite the tub and shower was another set of pocket doors. Uneasily certain of what lay beyond them, she put her fingers into the handle recesses and parted them.

As soon as they slid aside, she saw that the garage wasn't the only reason the house had seemed larger on the outside: a third of the floor space was in this bedroom.

The carpet was white shag, and looked as soft and warm as the robes; a big pile of pillows in the corner made it clear Eric spent time on it. Another set of pocket doors, presumably the ones she'd seen from the living room, graced the left wall. But the centerpiece of the room was a beautiful bed, way too large not to be custom-made, that stood with its headboard against the right wall. A mini fridge and a wine cooler flanked it instead of night tables. Through the cooler's glass door, she could see rows of bottles and a pair of stemmed glasses. A flatscreen bigger than the one in the living room was mounted on the wall opposite the bed, above the pocket doors. A row of mirrored doors lined the wall opposite her; she could see her reflection, peering wide-eyed at her over Eric's X-rated workbench.

Something about those doors especially bothered her: they looked to be just mirrored six-foot sliders, typical closet doors – but why were there four of them? _What guy has that many clothes?_ Her imagination kicked into second gear, and she envisioned crossing the room and opening one to reveal his handcuff collection or something. Or... She looked at the probable view from the doors. There was one pair that would overlook the entire room without obstruction. She imagined drawing one of them aside and discovering a bank of cameras behind one-way glass.

She blinked. _Get real. Look at this room. For that matter, think about the layout of the rest of the house. Aside from kitchen cabinets and the coat closet by the front door, there's no storage anywhere. He probably keeps everything from cufflinks to running shoes behind those doors. Skis, even._

She glanced over at the pocket doors again and saw that one of them was now open and her host was looking into the bedroom. Eric's eyes roved over the floor and bed and coolers. _Making sure everything's ready._ His face turned her way, and she ducked back and silently slid the doors shut, hoping he hadn't noticed her.

Back in the 'front' bathroom, she took a moment to get a grip, and to remind herself she wasn't your average ninety-eight pound girl. She could be out of here in three seconds flat anytime she wanted, no matter how insistent he got. _But if it comes to that… can I do it using what Mr. Lynch taught us, or will I have to use Gen, do something that will raise questions?_

When she came out of the bathroom, she heard a sound system playing quietly in the living room: more electronic mood music, soothing and familiar – or would have been, if she hadn't been wound too tight to be soothed. Eric was waiting at the kitchen island with a bottle in an ice bucket and two champagne glasses, which were filled with bubbly. _That's the pop I heard._ She took a quick breath and forced herself to look at ease. He handed her a glass. He raised his own, touched rims with her, and raised it to his lips. "Find what you were looking for?"

_Busted. _She looked over her rim at his faint smile and imagined how it would have looked to him, both of them peeking in the bedroom at the same time, sharing a preview of coming attractions. "Not looking for anything in particular, just looking."

She took a tiny sip. The bubbles fizzed on her tongue. It was crisp and sort of fruity without being too sweet, and the scent of it filled her throat and nose. She could barely taste the alcohol, false advertising for sure; she was certain she'd be stoned on just a couple glasses. She resolved to do no more than wet her lips with the rest.

Something about Eric's smile as he watched her drink bothered her. It wasn't good humor curling the corners of his mouth. A stab of panic stopped her breath. _I didn't watch him pour._ She blinked and looked again. No, that smile wasn't predatory enough. But there was definitely some serious anticipation in it. _It's the alcohol he's counting on, that's all._

"Thought I heard you on the phone," he said.

She nodded and took another sip without thinking. "I canceled my ride. You don't mind taking me home, do you? Or did I presume?"

"I'll take you anywhere you want." He lifted his glass and said, "Want to take these to the couch? I can start a fire."

_I just bet you could._ She gestured towards the pool table. It was a beautiful piece of furniture, antique-looking, with carved legs and braided leather cups at the pockets instead of a collection mechanism. "How about a game instead? I'm crazy good."

"Are you really?" He topped off their glasses. "Your own opinion, or is that what they tell you?"

_Gawd. Could the double entendres be any heavier? _She smiled up at him. "Wait till you see my trick shots."

He moved to the pool table and set his glass on a butler's table against the wall. "Pick a cue. I rack, you break." He walked around the table collecting balls, then arranged them carefully inside the wooden triangle, positioning the assembly with a few tiny adjustments. He lifted the triangle and stepped back. "Show me what you've got."

She selected a cue, giving more attention to the corner pocket behind the balls than to the sticks. She bent over the table with her choice gripped in her thumbs and wiggled her fingers. "Limbering up." She sighted on the cue ball and the pack of balls. She stroked, and the cue ball whacked into the set, scattering the balls.

Three balls dropped into the corner pocket.

Eric stared at the pocket. "That better have been luck."

She smiled. "Maybe a little."

"First one in was the two. You've got solids."

"Hmp." The other two balls had been striped. Which meant that Eric was one up on her already.

She walked around the table, looking for a shot she could make without Gen, or at least a solid near a pocket with no stripes between. The three, standing a foot from a corner pocket, was her best bet, but the cue ball was almost in the middle of the table, an awkward shot for a player who was only five-foot-one.

"Want to put a bet down?" Eric leaned against the wall behind her, sipping his drink.

She offered him a dirty look. "Ask me again after I make this shot." The edge of the table was just below her navel. She leaned far across the middle of the table, her chest almost touching the felt. It still wasn't quite enough. She rested a forearm on the felt and put a knee up on the edge of the table to improve her angle, standing on the ball of the other foot, and felt the hem of her dress brush her butt, probably exposing an inch or so of cheek. _Thank God I opted for Brazil cut instead of a thong tonight._

Eric said, "You might not plan on dancing for a living, but I bet you practice for hours every day."

_Not my shot you're checking out back there, is it, Eric?_ "Every day, but sometimes not for long. I've got other interests, you know." She stroked the cue ball, which tapped the bright-red three. It shot off towards the bumper right next to the pocket, certain to miss the hole and go ricocheting back into the middle of the table… then curved and went in.

"How did you get that kind of spin on it?"

She shrugged. "Oh, practice." She straightened and slid her knee off the table, still looking over the scattered balls for her next shot. "How big a bet? I don't have much money." Not exactly true; Anna wouldn't let any of them out of the house without plastic and a couple hundred in cash, but their little den mother had made it clear that it was emergency money, not discretionary funds.

On the other hand, she wanted to stay at the pool table, upright and mobile, for the rest of the night if possible; the couch seemed like a very bad idea, especially with champagne in hand. She'd be glad to let him win half the games to keep him playing. If he wanted to throw a little dinero on it besides, well, she thought Anna might class this as an emergency.

"I wasn't thinking of money." He was still behind her, but sounded closer.

She tensed. "What then?" She turned and he was _right_ behind her. The table bumped her butt before she realized she'd tried to step back.

He smiled at her discomfort. "Ever play 'Truth or Dare'?"

She tipped her head up to meet his eyes. "I don't think I'd ever pick 'dare' if I lost."

He tilted his head slightly. "How about if we agree on the dare beforehand? Keep the 'truth' a surprise, though. And the winner picks."

She slid sideways and moved to the end of the table, pretending to study it.

He didn't follow, as she'd half expected him to. "Roxanne," he said softly, "nothing's going to happen here that you don't want."

She didn't find that statement reassuring. _How many defendants in rape cases claimed she was asking for it?_ She avoided his eyes and bent over the table. "Okay." She found an easy shot, the six, standing near the side pocket. She stroked it in. _Three to two._ "What kind of dare are you thinking of?"

"Dance for me," he said, voice still soft and deep. "One song, my pick."

"That's it?"

"That's it. What about yours?"

She grinned. "The same."

He grinned back and things were friendlier than they'd been since she'd gotten in his car.

The one-ball was next. She sent it into the pocket without Gen, and surveyed the table, picking her next target. Nothing presented itself; the eight-ball and Eric's five remaining stripes were covering every pocket.

"Give me a turn," he said, "and maybe I could clear some of the clutter out for you."

"Next game, maybe." She settled on the seven, almost touching Eric's twelve-ball in the corner. "After I've seen you play." She drove the cue ball into the seven, popping the brick-red ball into the pocket. The twelve seemed about to follow it in, then did a curious reverse and stopped an inch short.

Eric stared at the twelve. "Trick shots, all right. You sure know how to put English on a ball. It's as if you're tilting the table."

The last two balls, the four and five, were hemmed in by stripies. She didn't see how she could even get the cue ball to them.

Eric smiled. "Looks like I'm getting a turn after all."

"Fat chance." She sighted on the purple four and concentrated. Then she concentrated some more.

"Ahem," Eric said.

"Quit distracting me." She waited with the end of the stick poised an inch from the cue ball until she got her focus back. Then she drove the end of the stick into the white ball, just below center, and it leaped into the air, clearing the stripers, and smacked the four. It took off, not heading for a pocket. It bounced off a bumper, then another, without losing any momentum. It bounced off a couple of Eric's balls, dislodging them from the pocket and sending them into the center of the table, then curved into a side pocket and dropped in.

Eric stared at the pocket. "No. Freaking. Way."

She blew on the tip of the cue. Then she took a big gulp from her glass, watching him from over the rim.

"If I'd seen that on TV," he said, "I'd have thought it was special effects. _Tell_ me you didn't do that."

"I didn't do that," she lied. "I was just trying to bust things up a little before I gave you the table. But it still counts, right?"

"Yeah. Though, now, I'm starting to think I didn't really see what I thought I saw. Did you maybe drop some acid in my wine?" He smiled. "Kidding. I know you wouldn't do that."

She giggled. "You're gonna think I'm paranoid. But, early on, I was worried about you putting something in _my_ drink."

"I did put something in your drink."

Time stopped.

He smiled into his glass. "My tongue. After you drank half of it. I had this idea it would taste sweeter after it touched your lips."

"Gawd." She put a fist into his shoulder. _Oh, crap. I'm liking him._

The last of her balls, the five, was now a clear shot into the far corner pocket. She stroked it in, and studied her angle on the eight. There was a stripe in the way, so she'd have to make a bank shot, and the only approach she could feasibly make put her in real danger of scratching. She thought briefly of doing another voodoo shot, but decided she'd pushed Eric's credulity enough on the four-ball. She'd just give the cue ball a nudge away from the pocket at the last second if she had to. She leaned over the table, concentrating on her aim, and drew back for the stroke.

Eric blew softly in her ear.

She shivered and fluffed the shot, sending the cue rolling lazily towards the side pocket. He grabbed the ball, laughing. "Sorry, sorry. You just looked so damn serious." He set it back in its original place. "Do-over." He stepped back, hands in the air.

She gave him a dirty look, lined up the shot again, and tapped the cue ball with the end of the stick. The white ball just missed a striper, hit the bumper at a shallow angle, bounced, and tapped the black ball. The eight ball dropped into the hole. The cue ball bounced against one bumper, then the other, then came to rest an inch in front of the pocket.

"Well." He turned from the table to her. "Got a song picked out? Don't expect much."

She lowered her lashes. "Actually, I think I'll pick 'truth'." She set aside her cue and started collecting balls. "At the beach, it seemed like each of you guys had one of us staked out as soon as you set up the net. How did that happen?"

He looked uncomfortable. "Sure you don't want me to dance?"

"Yes. Very." She set the rack on the felt. "Well?"

"We scissor-paper-rocked before we dropped anchor."

She dropped all the balls into the triangle before she spoke again. "Who'd you duel for first? The redhead?"

He nodded.

"How far down the list was I?"

"Roxanne, I –"

"Third or fourth?" She shook the rack forward and back to pack the balls.

"Third." He bent close. "But I wasn't the one who picked the order. If I had, you'd have been first, and I'd have ended up with the redhead. I got lucky."

"Not that lucky." She smiled. "We didn't even trade names before you remembered your urgent appointment."

"And who were those Neanderthals on the beach? They looked like Moustache Petes."

She paused with her fingers still in the rack. "What?"

"Mooks. Godfather types." He adopted an awful Godfather accent. "Wassa matter, you little punks? You got no respect. Get outta here an doanna come back, less you want to sleep with the fishes."

She giggled, then decided to tease him a little, maybe test his temper. "Aww, did the big mean men scare you?"

"Let's just say they made it hard to concentrate on the game."

"Which one?"

He frowned. "Which one?"

"Which game? The game with the net, or the game up on the deck?"

The corner of his mouth quirked. "The one with the net. Skip missed a return and caught a spike right in the forehead, left him staggering. You didn't see it?"

"Nope. Must've been watching you." _Passing grade, Eric. No fragile male ego here._ She smiled at the set as she lifted the triangle. "Your break."

He set down his glass and passed hers to her as he bent over the table with his cue, taking a few slow practice strokes. She watched him, sipped, and downed a quarter of it before she remembered her resolution and set it on the side table again. She liked his hands: wide, like Eddie's, the fingers square-tipped and perfectly manicured. They handled the stick with ease and confidence. She blinked at the sudden realization that she was wondering how they would feel in her hands.

With his eye on the tip of his cue, he said, "Are you avoiding the question?"

"Uh, no. Just thinking of something else." She reached for her glass and took a sip. "They're neighbors, actually. The kind it's best to be on friendly terms with. I bet Dad asked them to keep an eye on things while he's out of town." The cover story they'd been coached to tell presented Mr. Lynch as a patron, not a relative, but she thought a dangerous father in the picture might give her some leverage with this guy. _And besides, it just sounds right._

"'Things'. Right." He drove the cue into the white ball. With a loud _crack_, the cue ball split the pack wide open, scattering balls all over the table. One ball, the seven, dropped into a corner pocket.

"Yow," she said. "Sledgehammer break."

He smiled at her. "The only time starting out gentle is a bad idea." He studied her a moment. "What does your dad do for a living, Roxanne?"

She felt mischief touch the corners of her mouth. "You wearing a wire, Eric?"

"I just think it might be important to know if I'm abducting a Mafia princess tonight. I hope your 'ride' isn't packing heat."

She giggled. "No and no."

He stepped to the counter and lifted the bottle out of the ice, wrapping it in a towel as he removed it like he was swaddling a baby. He brought it to the table and topped off his glass, then extended the bottle towards the one in her hand.

She pulled the glass to her. "Whoa," she said. "I'm not planning on killing that."

"Neither am I." He poured an inch of liquid into her glass, bringing the level almost to the rim, then returned the bottle to the ice and unwrapped it. "But it gets warm in these little glasses, and I think it tastes better cold, don't you?" He returned his attention to the table. "Six in the side." He stroked the ball in.

"Showoff," she said. "You gonna call every one?"

"Yep." He circled the table, ending up next to her. He picked his glass off the table and sipped at it, returning it three-quarters full. "So," he pressed, "how does he make his money, if he doesn't run rackets?"

_Time for a little more fun?_ She brought the glass to her lips to hide her smile. "Would you believe he's a mercenary commander?" _Sometimes the best way to lie is to tell the truth in a way you know won't be believed._

"You're shitting me."

She snorted. "Wondered if you knew how to cuss." She took a sip from her glass. "Yeah, I am. He's a 'security consultant', whatever that is; he's always been a little vague about what he does. But it pays beaucoup, and he travels all over. I think he trains bodyguards and security forces for important stuff like nuke plants. You know, shoot first, ask questions never kind of guys. He used to be a SWAT commander or something like that." She'd gone far beyond the limits of the cover story, but the look on Eric's face was too satisfying to let go of. "He still teaches unarmed combat, too. He can break a guy's arm in one second flat."

He circled the table and brushed against her, then bumped his butt into her belly as he bent for a shot. "Mind?"

"Nope," she said, surprised at the little tingle the contact gave her. She moved away, glass in one hand and stick in the other, and sat at the counter.

"Five." He touched a corner pocket with the end of the cue, then dropped the orange ball in with a bank shot. "Has he ever broken a guy's arm over you?"

She smiled. "Yeah, but not lately. Guess he thinks I'm grown up enough to start making mistakes."

He moved to the other end of the table and sighted on the four. "What's your mom think about his career?"

Her train of thought stuttered. "Not much. They're not together anymore."

"So your dad got custody of all three of you?"

_Three? _She almost corrected him, then thought back to what she'd told him earlier. _Sarah and me… and a brother he hasn't seen, Kat's boyfriend. Doesn't take long for a poorly-thought-out lie to start coming apart, does it?_ "No, we're just spending some time with him. Listen, can we talk about something else?"

"Sorry." He stared at the felt. "My folks are divorced too. It was pretty ugly. They still don't talk." He turned to her with a smile that looked like it had cost him a little effort, then returned his attention to the table. "Four in the corner."

She pushed down a little flush of sympathy. _Okay, so you're short a parent too – assuming they're really divorced, and this isn't just a play. At least you had money. Bet you never shopped for clothes at the Goodwill, or ate box mac-and-cheese for dinner three nights running. I can't afford to get simpatico with you, Eric. _

Eric stroked, and the white ball leaped off the stick's tip to smack into the purple four-ball. It caromed off the eleven and dropped into the corner pocket. "Three in the side." It was an easy shot, and he had no trouble with it.

Then he set his cue against the wall and reached into his back pocket and pulled out his phone. _Odd_, she thought. _I didn't hear it ring._ He held it up to his eye, and she just had time to realize he was taking her picture before the phone made its little shutter-click sound. "Sorry," he said. "I should've asked first. I'll erase it if you want. But I had to take it."

He brought the phone to the counter and showed her the picture. She studied it, and saw why he'd wanted it. She was turned almost in side view, but face to the camera. The stools were a little tall for her, and she was half-standing with her butt perched on the edge and the near leg stretched out to touch the floor with the ball of her foot. The other leg was bent, the bare heel resting on the stool's bottom rung, toe pointing at the floor. Her dress, already short, was hiked up a tiny bit more, a thumb's width this side of decent. The pool cue stood between her legs, clasped loosely between her thumbs and her twined fingers, resting against the inside of her bare upraised thigh. She was looking directly at the camera with an intent and focused expression; she knew she'd only been studying the table, but along with the pinup-girl pose, it construed interest of an entirely different sort. "Wow. I don't think I could look sexier if I tried." _And I look like I'm about ten minutes from jumping into bed with the guy taking the pic._

"Opinions vary," he said. "Can I keep it?"

"Let me think about that awhile." Roxy slid off the stool and led the way back to the table. She took a sip from her glass at the sideboard as she watched him study the playing field. He seemed to be ignoring an easy shot on the one-ball as he regarded the cue and two-ball from several angles. Then it hit her. "You're sinking them in _order_."

"More of a challenge that way, don't you think?" He sent the two into a corner pocket with a two-bank shot that almost, but not quite, put her nine ball into the side. The one ball was as easy as she'd predicted. He sank the eight and looked her way, eyes dark. "I think I'll take that dance now."

He picked up his glass and turned to the kitchen, and she took a nervous sip from hers. He reached under the island's counter, and the music changed to a smoky dance tune she recognized. "If you're ready."

She moved off the carpet to the wooden part of the floor. _Just pretend you're at home, or at a club surrounded by strangers. You're not performing for a guy, you're just enjoying yourself._ She started moving to the beat, a little stiffly at first until she limbered up, then more fluidly as the music sank into her and her lower body began to stretch and warm. Her spine flexed and her hips rocked as her feet and knees found a pattern that pleased them. She rolled her neck and head and moved her arms like a hula dancer's, and felt the tension drain away as the music claimed her.

She glanced toward the counter and faltered. Eric was leaning over the island with his elbow on the counter and his chin in his hand, staring dreamily at her. She turned away and continued. "Enjoying the show?"

"More than I ever imagined. You're incredible." His voice deepened and softened. "It's like you're making love to the music. I feel like I could watch you forever."

The song ended – just in time, she thought. She took a deep breath and returned to the table. "My break?"

He filled his empty glass. She reached for hers, and brought the full glass carefully to her mouth, for fear of spilling it. She stopped with the rim to her lips. _Wait a minute. I took a sip out of this already._ "Did you fill this?"

"Not lately. Why?"

"I thought…" She shrugged, drank off a quarter of it, and returned it to the shelf. It was pretty tasty, she thought, and not as strong as she'd feared. Drinking in little sips seemed to keep it from having any effect at all. She was feeling really warm and loose right now, but she was sure that was just from the dance. "Rack em up, cowboy."

He started collecting balls from the pockets. "I need to think up a new dare before we start." He set the rack on the table and started dropping balls in. "Gonna be hard to top the first one, though."

"Oh, I don't know." _I could lift you off the floor by pointing at you, how about that?_ "I bet you can come up with something."

He nodded slowly. "I think I have. First thought was to have you spend fifteen minutes in my bubble tub."

"No _way_."

He smiled and shook his head. "Alone. You just look like you could use it. But, now, I think… Another dance. With me this time."

She lifted her eyebrows. "Slow or fast?"

"You need to ask?" He shook the rack back and forth. "What about you? Sticking with the first one?"

"Mm-hm." She lowered her lashes. "But I'm gonna be spending a _lot_ of time thinking up a new question."

"Gulp." He lifted the rack.

-0-

Roxy watched Eric line up on his last stripe, feeling uneasy. Not because he was about to win; because this should have been her game. She'd broken, and dropped the six, a solid, into a corner pocket. She'd started to run the table, pleasant with anticipation of collecting her wager. But then her power had betrayed her.

She'd run out of easy shots. Actually, she'd run out of _possible_ shots. Somehow, every reasonable path between one of her balls and a pocket, or between the cue ball and one of her solids, had been blocked by a stripe or the eight. She'd needed nothing less than a two- or three-bank shot to sink her next ball. She didn't mind that; she'd just needed to find one that didn't look like special effects.

And it was getting strangely hard to focus. She'd circled the table a couple times, staring at the lays. She'd found herself studying a shot, and remembered that she'd looked at it before and passed on it. Another time, she'd been staring at a setup that looked surprisingly good, wondering why she hadn't noticed it before, only to realize that she was looking at the eleven, not one of her target balls. Tension, she'd decided. Only, she didn't really feel all that tense. Just easily confused, and … distracted.

"Take it easy," Eric had chuckled behind her. He'd taken to following her around the table and standing close. She'd felt his hands on her shoulders, kneading gently. "It's just a game. If you want an answer to your question that bad, I'll just tell you. Loosen up."

The feel of his fingertips pressing into her shoulders through the fabric had made her feel loose, all right; she'd nearly dropped the cue. "Mm. That feels good, but you need to stop. I can't even see the table when you do that." _And it would help my concentration if I couldn't feel your body heat every time I pause to look it over. _"Could you, uh, top off my glass?"

"Sure." He'd picked both their glasses off the sideboard and headed to the counter. She'd leaned a hip against the side of the table, trying to think. She'd finally decided to drop the six into the corner pocket. But it would take a lot of help from her Gen to get the ball past two stripes and into the pocket cleanly without scratching or pushing in a stripe ahead of it.

She'd stared at the pocket, sort of folding the space between it and the ball in her mind, making the pocket call to it. That wasn't really what using her power was like, but she couldn't come up with a better description. She'd tried to explain to Kat and Sarah, and had only confused herself.

She'd felt a weird sensation, like climbing a hill and cresting it unexpectedly and finding your next step lower than your last when you expected it to be higher. She'd actually lurched as she'd leaned over the table with the cue in hand.

"Whoa, there." Eric had set his glass on the rail of the pool table, near the pocket she'd been trying to hex. He'd stood watching her from the other side of the table.

The level of the liquid in his glass had begun to tilt, rising up the side nearest the pocket. She'd stared at it in alarm. _Hold on, I didn't want to do that._

The striped ball nearest the pocket had stirred slightly.

_Stop._

It had begun to roll towards the corner pocket. Another stripe, a bit farther away, had stirred.

She'd done the first thing she could think of. She'd slammed the cue into the white ball, aiming for the corner, and driven both stripes into the pocket. The cue ball had followed immediately after.

The spell had broken. The bubbly in Eric's glass, released, had sloshed gently back and forth. Her companion's gaze had shifted from her to the pocket. "What was that?"

"I don't know. Frustration, I guess. I couldn't find a shot."

"Roxanne, are you okay? Do you want to sit down?"

She'd shaken her head. "No. Take your turn." She'd stood behind him while the shakes went away. Then she'd stood at the sideboard, sipping from her glass, while he'd run the table.

She watched the last stripe go in. The eight was an easy shot. He laid the cue on the table and looked at her. "I don't know how to dance, actually. This is going to be more like junior prom than _Dancing with the Stars_."

"Let me put my shoes back on then, so I'm not like a little kid standing next to you." She started towards the door.

"It's all right," he said quickly, and reached for her wrist to pull her to him. "I don't mind. We can reach everything we need to." He smiled. "If I was going to steal a kiss, then maybe."

Thirty seconds later, Roxanne said, "Wow. You really _can't_ dance."

"Shut up." But he was smiling when she looked up.

They really were just prom-dancing, taking the occasional step-and-turn, but mostly just holding on to each other and swaying to the music. They'd started out classic-formal, her right hand clasped in his left, his right at the small of her back, her left on his right shoulder. But it felt ridiculous, since he wasn't leading or even moving around much, so she let go of his hand and put her arms around his neck, and his left hand found a cozy home between her shoulder blades. She laid the side of her head against his chest. "I can hear your heartbeat."

"I can't hear yours." He pressed her a little tighter against him. "But I can feel it."

She suddenly felt out of sync. Not because she'd turned clumsy or anything, although she did feel a little light-headed; because the arms wrapped around her felt right and wrong at the same time.

"You've got a boyfriend," he said, voice neutral.

She let out a breath. "Sometimes I wonder."

"What's he like?"

She shook her head, sort of rubbing it against his shirt. "You don't really want to know."

"I might. I'd like to know what it is about him that makes you sigh."

She scoffed. "Exasperation. I don't know what I see in him. He's such a pig sometimes."

"Except when he's not." He took a step, and she stumbled a tiny bit; he snugged her closer. "What's he like when he's not?"

She tightened her grip around his neck. "Even when he's not, he's nothing like you. Is it getting hot in here?"

"Only since you walked in." He looked down at her. "You're not like other girls. It's not just your looks. There's something about you, something special." They swayed together a bit more. The heel of his hand at the small of her back moved in a little circle, the smallest of caresses. "At the frat, you could have gotten a dozen guys to take you away. What made you pick me?"

She smiled at him, feeling sly. "Maybe there was something special about you, too."

He pulled her a little tighter. "If I was your boyfriend, you wouldn't wonder."

The song ended. She stood leaning against him for a moment longer. He kissed the top of her head and let go of her. "Rack em up."

"Wait a minute. You won last time."

"You broke last time, remember? We're alternating breaks, not handing the break to the loser."

"Loser." Grumbling, she collected the balls from the pockets and set them into the triangle. One slipped from her fingers and hit the surface with a _crack_. "Sorry."

She didn't really watch the game, feeling sure of its outcome. Instead, she watched Eric as she sipped at her glass. Eric ran the table again, but, as he stroked the eight in, she realized she wasn't sure whether he'd had stripes or solids. She looked at the remaining balls as she emptied her glass: _solids_. _He had stripes again. _She blinked. "Hey. We didn't agree on a dare for this game. Did we?"

"No." His eyes met hers. "We didn't."

She felt a little uneasy, but it was a vague and distant sort of feeling, as if she knew she _should_ be tensing up, but had almost forgotten how. "What dare were you…."

"Nothing too scary." He smiled and pointed to the couch. "You've been on your feet since you got here. You look a little wobbly. Kick back and put your feet up on the table for fifteen minutes." He pressed a button beside the fireplace, and flames leaped up inside.

She sat on the couch, sinking in just a bit. She had to slouch a little to reach the table with her feet, but that was okay. The upholstery was cool for a moment, then warmed with reflected heat. She sighed and let her eyes drift closed. _I could almost fall asleep._

Something bumped the front of her shoulder. She opened her eyes to see Eric holding their glasses. "Here. It's really full. Better take it down a little. It'll stain the leather if you spill it." She accepted the glass and took a swallow. He sat down on the coffee table, facing her. He set his half-full glass down, took her feet in his lap, and started rubbing one of them. "High heels are murder, huh? The things you girls do for us." He pressed and kneaded her arch and pulled gently on her toes.

She let out a little moan. "Unh."

"Did I hurt you?"

"Yes. Hurt me some more."

"Your wish is my command." He squeezed her toes together at the ball of her foot, then bent her foot back and forth while pressing the heel of one hand into her Achilles tendon. "Better?"

She rolled her hips, sliding a little lower. "Oh. Oh. Gawd, yes. That feels _so_ good. I didn't even know they hurt."

He smiled and switched feet. "Really. You seem perfectly in tune to your body when you dance. You done with that? I'll take it."

She looked down at the glass in her hand. It was empty. "Did I spill it?"

"Don't think so." He stretched out her leg, putting her foot against his stomach, and started massaging her calf. His hands were stronger than she would have guessed, and her legs tingled wherever he'd touched them. She couldn't stop the breathy little sounds coming out of her mouth as he worked his way up to the hollow of her knee. He gave the back of her thigh a soft little caress that made her glutes tighten, then picked up the other leg as he slid forward a bit and went to work on it.

She closed her eyes and the room started to turn slowly, so she opened them again. Eric was smiling at her as he softly caressed the backs of her knees. "You have the most unbelievable skin." He leaned forward with his half-full glass. "Share?" He touched it to his lips and presented it to her. She emptied it, and it joined hers on the table. "A good massage always leaves you a little drowsy." With one hand under her knees and the other gripping the tops of her ankles, he bent her legs and swung her feet towards the end of the couch. "Like you're floating away."

She felt her shoulders come off the back of the couch. "Hey."

"It's okay, just stretch out and relax. Don't fight it. You know you want to."

Her head was pillowed on the padded arm of the couch now. It _was_ comfy, she decided, as the leather warmed up. She felt her eyelids growing heavy, and smiled. "All I need now is a blanket."

"You're already plenty warm. And soft. And you smell like heaven."

His voice was low and very near. She opened her eyes, and he was kneeling beside her. His arm slid smoothly into the hollow space under her neck. His fingers parted her hair on the opposite side of her head to stroke her ear, feather-light. His other hand stoked her forearm. She felt a tingle from her neck to her thighs that had nothing to do with champagne. "Eric-"

"Shh." She could feel his breath in her other ear as he leaned closer, and she couldn't exhale. She flattened her palms against the cushion, not co-operating, but not hindering either.

His hand was stroking the side of her neck now, the fingers sliding an inch under her dress and then retreating. It cradled the back of her neck and lifted, gently but firmly, irresistible, bringing her shoulders up and tilting her head back. His lips touched her neck where it joined her shoulder, and kissed it. She shivered, and his other hand moved to her knee. "God, you're beautiful." His lips moved up her neck to her ear, delivering little kisses all along the way, and nuzzled it briefly. Her breath shallowed out to little sips of air.

_What's happening to me? Why am I letting this happen? To buy more time? Because I can't think of a way to stop? Because I'm angry at my boyfriend? Because it feels wonderful? _His questing lips traced a line just under her jaw. His head dipped briefly to her throat and turned, and she gasped as his tongue gently probed the hollow. His other hand started to slide very slowly up the inside of her thigh, taking the hem of her dress with it, and she felt her glutes tighten again. _Move, dammit. Grab his hand. Sit up. _Nothing happened. She tried to speak, but his lips glided up under her chin, and her voice faded away in her throat. She felt paralyzed, overloaded with sensation, barely able to breathe. He stopped at her chin, an inch from meeting her lips. He removed his hand from between her thighs, one finger just brushing her panties as it withdrew. "Come, baby." His forearm was under her shoulder blades. He gripped her shoulder and pulled her against his chest, and slid his other arm under her knees, lifting. "I think it's time to see the rest of the house."

She said, "I'm fifteen."

He brushed his mouth against hers for a second before her words sank in. Then he jerked his head back as if he'd just mashed his face into a glass wall. "That's not funny, Roxanne."

"No," she said, shaking as she exhaled. "It isn't." From here, she thought, things would go one of three ways: he would get angry, and chill; he would get angry and violent; or he might get angry and decide to go through with it, which was pretty much the same as option two. She waited, tense.

He turned her in his arms and set her back on the couch. She felt her rear end settle into the leather cushion. Then his arms slipped off her, and her feet dropped to the floor again. The look on his face might have been funny if it hadn't made her feel weak with relief. "_Tell_ me you're shitting me." He searched her face; clearly, he didn't find any reassurance there. "You said you were in school. _High_ school?"

She sat up and looked at her knees. It seemed the safest place.

He stood and picked up their champagne glasses. He headed for the sink, where he rinsed the glasses and set them on the strainer board to dry. "I'm sure every man in my position says the same thing, but you…."

"I'm good with clothes and makeup."

"More than that." He was still standing at the sink, with the island and the sofa between them. She suddenly felt like a leper. "The way you act. That's not fifteen."

"Older sister, remember?" _What a joke. As if Kat would ever have something to teach me about guys. I've learned more from Sarah, lots, and she doesn't even like them._ "I can talk the talk. But I don't…."

"Do what a woman does." He picked his keys up off the counter. "I need to take you home now."

"Mad at me?"

"No. Shocked. Hugely disappointed."

"Sorry."

"Not with you." He looked at her across the barriers between them, and her upper arms broke out in goosebumps. "No man's ever going to be disappointed with you, I'm sure of it." He jingled the keys. "Come on."

"Just let me go to the bathroom first."

It took her two tries to punch in Kat's number. This time, she flushed the toilet before she spoke on the phone. "Kat. Red alert. Get out of there. Leave Melanie and Lori if you have to, but get out of there _now_."

Her sister didn't argue or question. "_Okay. But you're going to tell me everything when we get home._" She disconnected.

_Oops_, she thought,_ missed Joel. Can't forget to leave him behind._ For some reason, that seemed funny.

When she came out, Eric was standing by the door to the garage with her shoes in one hand. She said, "Sure you're okay to drive?"

"What?"

"How much did you-" She pulled the champagne bottle out of its bucket and set it on the counter; she was mildly surprised to see it was empty. "That's a lotta booze."

He offered her a shoe. "I've never felt so painfully sober in my life."

She slipped on her shoes, leaning heavily on Eric's arm. They seemed harder to get on; she supposed her feet were still swollen. She took two steps towards the car and stumbled. The heels seemed way more difficult to walk in than they had earlier in the evening. The straps must be stretched, she thought. She took Eric's arm again, slipped them off, and walked to the car barefoot.

Ten minutes into the drive, she felt flushed. She found the window control and lowered the glass.

"Hey," Eric said. "I'll pull over. Don't get sick in the car."

_Sick?_ "M'not sick," she said. "Just need some air." The breeze cooled and steadied her, and after a few minutes, she rolled the window back up. She rested the side of her head on the cool glass. "You're not going to tell anybody, are you?"

"That I almost bedded a girl who's still playing with dolls?"

"Smartass."

"No," he said, gentler, "I'm not going to tell anybody."

She nodded, forehead against the glass. "That's good. You tell somebody you trust, and he tells somebody _he_ trusts, and sooner or later it reaches somebody you'd never trust, you know?"

They rode in silence for a few more minutes, then she said, "It's not too late to go back to the party." This possibility had been the reason she'd urged Kat out the door. Taking Roxy home and driving back to the frat would take Eric most of an hour, but Kat would need to leave the scene early enough to have dropped out of the general conversation by the time he got there. "Probly not too late to find another girl to bring home, even. One old enough to spend the night."

"That wouldn't be fair to her," he said to the windshield. "I'd be thinking of you the whole time."

She blushed from her chin to her hairline.

When they reached the gate closing off the community, she said, "This is good. Drop me off right here."

He looked over the gate at the deserted street. "You sure?"

"It's just a few houses down. Security will probly pick me up before I get there and give me a ride."

He held her eyes. "Roxanne, are you in trouble?"

"Not as much as I'd be in if I let you take me to the door." She reached over quickly and gave him a kiss on the corner of his mouth.

"What was that for?" He said, his face shadowed and unreadable.

"For being a gentleman. Before and after." She reached for the door handle and got out, feeling a little unsteady again.

She looked down the street. She'd never realized how dark it was here at night. The houses were lit up all around, but they were spaced far apart and well-back from the street. There were no overhead lights. Every mailbox beside the drive had a marker light, but it only illuminated a small circle where the driveway joined the road, little stepping-stones of light a hundred yards apart. The only other light on the road or sidewalk came from the Jag's headlights.

She heard a _clunk_ as he shut the passenger door. _I forgot to shut the door? What's wrong with me? _She watched him back and turn. He waved out the window as he took off, and she waved back, not knowing if he saw her. That was when she realized she'd left her shoes in his car.

_My purse. _She panicked for a moment until she looked down and saw it in her hand. _Gawd. I'm drunk. How? On maybe a glass and a half of champagne?_ She started toward the house. _Five houses down, or six? I'll know when I get there._ She walked into the darkness with her eyes squinted to hurry her night vision. She stepped off the sidewalk into the grass and promptly turned her ankle, almost falling_. Dang. If I had been wearing my shoes, I might have broken something._

The puddle of light at the end of the first driveway didn't seem to be getting any closer; she began to wonder if she was making any forward progress at all, she felt so tired and wobbly. Finally, it grew larger in her sight, and she realized she'd almost reached it. She had just begun to be able to make out the sidewalk under her feet when a black-hooded figure stepped into the light, waiting.

She stumbled to a stop as her heart sped up. _Mugger? Where's the security patrol? _Her hand reached into her purse and found her cellphone. She flipped it open and dropped it; she heard it clatter on the sidewalk. Running wasout of the question; she was sure she'd fall before she got ten feet. Her Gen had deserted her. She was a ninety-eight pound girl, alone with a stranger in the dark.

The figure, still shadowy from the waist up, reached up and dropped its hood back, dimly revealing the Tinkerbelle features of their android housekeeper. "Welcome home, sweetie." She bent to pick up the phone, reaching unerringly for it in the dark, then fell in beside Roxy and took her arm.

"How did you know to meet me?"

"Caitlin has been home for ten minutes. I take it your driver didn't travel the expressway."

"No." She gratefully leaned on the slender arm that felt as solid as a practice bar. "But how'd you know I was at the gate?"

The little cyber reached for the crucifix resting on Roxanne's collarbone and straightened it, returning the ornament to its usual place below the hollow of Roxy's throat. "Just had a feeling. So, do you want to practice?"

"Practice?"

"You've got a story to tell. Your sister is bobbing on the balls of her feet, waiting to hear it. I thought you might want to try it on me, in case it doesn't come out right the first time." Anna guided her out of the light and down the darkened sidewalk with the confidence of someone walking in daylight. "You've been drinking."

"Just a glass of champagne. Glass and a half, rather." She thought about Eric continually freshening her glass. "Maybe two."

"Maybe more. Did he pour your drinks?"

"He just topped off my glass. I was watching him. Mostly."

"Did he offer you something to eat?"

"I didn't ask."

"Roxanne. Did you tell him your age?"

"Yeah. About ten seconds before he said he was taking me home."

"And he dropped you off at the end of the street. Well, there's nothing wrong with his survival instinct." The dark deepened again; Anna was a faint silhouette backlighted by one of the neighbors' lawn lights. "It's hard to keep track of how much you drink when your glass never goes empty. 'Topping off' is a good way to get someone to drink more than they intend. And champagne doesn't taste strong, but it's at least as proof as wine. Plus, the carbonation accelerates the alcohol's absorption into the bloodstream, multiplying its effect. If you don't mind the expense, it's quite an effective date-rape drug."

"_No._" She hiccupped. "It wasn't like _that_. He was just trying to loosen me up. He didn't try to force me or anything. He didn't even kiss me. Well," she amended, "not on the mouth."

"I'm not going to ask you to expand on that. Are you thinking of seeing him again?"

She shook her head, and instantly regretted it; the world kept wobbling after she stopped. "No way."

"In that case, I think it might be best if we don't inform Mr. Lynch about this."

She leaned harder on Anna's arm. "What would he do?"

"I don't know. But the image of his face when I tell him is too frightening a thought to dwell upon."

36


	16. Going Nuclear

Sunday April 4 2004

La Jolla

Roxanne lay in a deck chair by the pool, soaking up early-afternoon sun, nursing her first-ever hangover, and wallowing. She was sure the hangover would be her last-ever, as well, because she had resolved half a dozen times since waking that she would never, ever drink again. She was wearing her skimpiest suit and her darkest shades, because the same sun that felt so good on her skin, cooking the poison out of her through her pores, drove nails into her eyes if she opened them past a squint. She hadn't moved in the past two hours, except to reach for the cool tumbler filled with hangover remedy Anna continually supplied: some sweet-salty concoction that reminded her of Gatorade, with one addition.

"Ecch," she'd said at the first sip. "My taste buds are still messed up. It tastes like there's booze in this."

"There is," the little cyber had replied. "Not much. But 'hair of the dog' is a valid treatment for alcohol poisoning, if the dosage is administered carefully."

So she took her medicine, moving slowly and carefully so as not to set off the bomb inside her skull, thinking about what a fool she'd been the night before. Her estimate of Eric's character wasn't nearly as generous now; she still didn't really know how he'd managed it, but she was now certain that most of that bottle had gone down her throat, not his. Details were lacking, but she thought he'd also been pretty skillful getting her used to the feel of his hands before he'd made his move. She thanked God for whatever had caused her to blurt out her age in a desperate bid to stop her charming jerk of a host from carrying his thoroughly potted guest to his bedroom for fun and games.

She wondered if Eric carried rubbers in his wallet for 'emergencies'. She'd bet anything there was a whole crate of them behind one of his mirrored doors.

From Roxy's chair, turned sideways on the seaward side of the pool, she could see both the swimming pool and the beach. Sarah lay reading in a chair overlooking the ocean, wearing a bikini with a gauzy beach wrap around her legs, an ice tea in a tall glass near at hand. In the pool, the water humped and rolled as Kat swam its length doing laps. The two of them had been hovering around Roxy since she'd woken at noon and stumbled into the kitchen with a hand over her eyes.

Anna appeared with a fresh morning-after drink. "Feeling any better, sweetie?"

"Thanks, yeah." She checked the impulse to nod. "I'm just miserable instead of being totally miserable." Anna was wearing her usuals this morning: blue short-sleeved shirt and baggy jeans. Definitely not dressed to impress. But the little housekeeper got a surprising amount of attention from men who visited the property, from the security guards to the postman. Roxanne was sure she'd seen her flirting with the guy who cut the grass. "Anna. You ever kiss a guy?"

The little cyber paused with the empty tumbler in her hand. "I've touched a number of men, but never with my lips."

"Like the big black guy with the great bod?"

"'Bod'? Oh. You mean Dewayne. He _is_ very well-developed. Rather like Mr. Lynch, but bulgier."

"You like him?"

The little cyber smiled. "I like a lot of people, sweetie."

"He ever try to kiss you?"

"I'm not sure. He put his hands around my waist once. That might have been the start of one before I slipped free."

"So, why didn't you let him?"

"It wasn't necessary," she said. "And it wouldn't have been prudent."

_Unnecessary. Imprudent. Sounds like a capsule description of my Saturday night._ She closed her eyes wearily. _Great. A robot could have handled Eric better than I did._ "You know what I said about never seeing him again? Now, I'm thinking, maybe I should see him just once more."

"Not worth your time," Sarah called from her chair.

Anna nodded. "I'd have to agree. It's over now, and it didn't turn out as badly as it might have."

Sarah held up her glass. "This is too sweet."

Anna took it from her hand. "It has the same amount of sugar in it as the last one."

"That one was too sweet too. Cut it by a third."

After the little housekeeper left, Roxy said, "Didn't take long for you to turn into a spoiled princess."

"You have absolutely no room to talk. At least I get my dirty clothes down the laundry chute. And if she's set on fixing my drinks, she should learn to do it right, don't you think?"

Kat rested her forearms on the edge of the pool. "She works hard to make us comfortable. Would it hurt to be nice to her once in a while?"

"Caitlin, when did you last pat the toaster and tell it what a good job it's doing?" Sarah turned a page. "Your sentimentality is one of the things I like about you both. But I don't feel any need to share your sentiments."

Anna returned with Sarah's glass, full, and a pitcher. "Take a sip."

Sarah sipped. "Better."

"Really?" Anna's eyebrows rose. "It's the same tea."

Roxy snorted, which hurt her head. Sarah gave her a dark look.

"I just wanted you to take it down a bit, because I added ice." The little cyber raised the pitcher. "I was going to add unsweetened to your taste, so I'd have it right from now on, but if it's okay like that after all, I'll leave it as is." She frowned. "Ah, ah…" She pulled a square of tissue from her shirt pocket and held it to her nose. "Hatchoo." She blew into it, folded it, and returned it to her pocket.

"What. Was that." Sarah set the tea on her bare stomach.

"I think I may be catching something."

"D minus, Anna," Roxy said. "That was the lamest-sounding sneeze and blow I ever heard. Not that I hear many fake sneezes."

"Would more practice do any good, do you think? I'm not made to expel air with much force."

"How boud you dust bragtiz dalkgig wid a blugged dose," Roxy suggested.

"Hm. Don't think I can do that either."

"As long as you're mimicking things you can't do." Sarah reached behind her head and pulled out the small round pillow she'd been lying on. She threw it six feet to Anna, who caught it against her stomach with one hand. "Why don't you tuck that under your shirt and pretend you're pregnant. Think of all the little performances you could put on. Backaches, chronic fatigue, mood swings, nausea. You could go into the bathroom and retch as often as you like. Bobby would spend all day lifting and carrying for you and asking you how you feel." She turned back to her book.

Roxy and Kat traded glances.

Anna looked down at the pillow against her stomach. "Sarah," she said gently, "Do you want children?"

The Apache Princess's eyes popped up. "Children. Me."

"You don't have to be hetero to conceive a child."

"It helps. Wherever did you get this idea?"

"Well, do you like kids?"

"I like kids about as well as I like boys." She put her nose back into her book. "And the idea of being impregnated makes me ill, whether the implement is a syringe or a penis."

"I didn't mean to offend, Sarah. I just-" Anna froze, as if she'd switched off. Then she turned towards the sea, looking at the spur of rock that jutted into the water to the north.

Roxy heard the motors just before she saw it: a cabin cruiser with a flying bridge, trimmed with a red stripe. "Is it-"

"I don't see him," Anna said, answering her next question as well as her first. "Just the other three."

The boat cruised towards them at a jogging pace, paralleling the shore eighty or a hundred yards out. The two boys in the open area at the back and the one at the wheel on the flying bridge all grinned at the house. Roxy half-smiled, despite her misery and the boys' association with Eric. _What horn dawgs. Some guys never-_

The boat's horn tooted. In unison, the three boys lifted champagne glasses in the air.

She felt dizzy. _He said he wouldn't. Not to anyone._

The boy on the bridge produced a bottle. He held its base against his lower abdomen while he fiddled with the stopper. It flew off with a _pop_ audible on shore. The boy continued to hold the bottle just above his crotch as the white foam fountained over the side. He beckoned, grinning: _come and get it._

"Looks like Eric's been telling stories," Sarah said, her voice flat. "And he might have left out a few details, and changed the ending."

_If it didn't hurt so much to move_, Roxy thought, _crawling to the pool and drowning myself would be an attractive option right now._

She was shocked again when Sarah lifted her glass, as if acknowledging the boys' salute. Then Roxy looked closer. Sarah was gripping the tall glass with her palm under the base, but only her thumb and three fingers were curled around it. Her long middle finger was upraised against the back, hidden from the boat's view by the dark liquid. _It isn't much_, she thought,_ but it's something._

The boat cruised down the shore. "Perverts," Kat said from the pool. "We should've holed their boat when you first suggested it."

"They're turning," Anna said. "Another pass, or perhaps this was a detour to somewhere else."

"Yes," Sarah said. "Back to the rock they came out from under." She set her book and glass on the table and stood. "Caitlin. Come with me. You two, stay where you are."

Kat climbed the ladder and wrung out her ponytail, her copper hair darkened from wetting. She turned to the lounger where her big beach towel hung. With all the men out of the house, she'd had no problem wearing the skimpier of her two suits, but Roxy was sure she'd sarong up as soon as she'd dried off if she wasn't going to stretch out on a chair. "Where are we going?"

"Just to the top of the stairs." Sarah's fingers worked the knot at her hip, freeing the wrap, then tossed it on the chair, baring her legs and hips. The Apache girl's eyes were as dark and unreadable as if she were wearing shades. She took two steps to the edge of the deck, where the stone steps led down to the beach. "Forget the towel. Come just as you are."

Kat changed course and joined Sarah, her wet suit clinging to her like white latex. "What do you want me to do?"

"Turn partway towards me like we're talking, Then just stand there being you." Sarah undid her hair and shook it free, a black satin sheet hanging down to the small of her back. "Hands on hips. Or you could cross your wrists behind your back. That would be splendid."

The boat had turned and was cruising back, a little faster than before; apparently, they'd had their little joke and were on their way to their next stop. But the engine throttled back abruptly when Sarah raised her hand over her head and waved, then turned sideways, bending her knees slightly, and slipped the strap of her suit down her shoulder.

Kat stood as ordered, which brought her shoulders back and made her already-impressive twins stand out like a pair of presidents on Mount Rushmore. She squirmed uncomfortably and shrugged her shoulders, which Roxy was sure was giving the guys on the boat fits. "Sarah, what are we doing?"

"Baiting the trap. Smile."

The boat slowed to a crawl as it neared the point of closest approach, the engines purring at idle. All three boys were watching the show, the two boys down below leaning far over the rail. A high-pitched "Hoo!" came across the water. The boy seated at the flying bridge pointed a thumb to the center of his bare chest and made a lifting motion. When Kat didn't comply, he gestured toward Sarah and repeated the show-your-tits gesture, grinning hugely.

Sarah shook her head and spread one hand across her chest while waving the other, palm-forward, in a negative gesture. Then she hooked a thumb in her suit bottom, pulling it off her hip and stretching it six inches. She let go, and it returned with a snap. She slapped her hip and rubbed it, then grabbed both sides of her suit bottom and stretched them out again. She rolled her hips as if she was dancing and pulled the bottom down a couple inches.

This time the "Hoo!" was accompanied by repeated calls from the horn and a loud whistle. One of the boaters at the back threw a leg over the side, as if about to jump overboard to join her. The other pulled him back, laughing.

"Sarah," Anna said, voice low, "what's the purpose behind this little burlesque?"

"Holding them in position," she answered in that flat voice again. "Just a little longer…" She abruptly took her thumbs out of her suit and straightened. "Surf's up."

Fifty yards beyond the stopped cruiser, a wall of water rose up, six or eight feet high, headed for shore – and the boat. The boys, their eyes glued to Kat and Sarah on the shoreward side, never saw it coming – not that it would have made any difference. It was on them in seconds.

The wave smashed into the side of the vessel, sending spray rocketing into the sky and pushing the boat a dozen feet towards shore. The crest rolled right over the sundeck at the back, and the two boys there disappeared under a blanket of water. The boat heeled over almost on its side, and the driver on the flying bridge was catapulted thirty feet into the air, bellowing and flailing his limbs, to hit the water halfway to shore with a huge splash.

The wave rolled past. Behind it, the boat righted sluggishly, much lower in the water and wrapped in mist, as its engines changed pitch, stuttered, and died. Two heads bobbed to the surface, also sputtering.

"Freak wave," Sarah said unsmiling, watching the two swimmers thrashing towards their boat. "Usually from seismic activity on the seabed miles from shore, but some of them seem to come from nowhere. The displacement is undetectable until it reaches shallower water and has no place to go but up."

The wave fell on the shore and covered the little beach, breaking on the steps with a splash. When it retreated, it left behind a harvest of sea life and a collection of odd junk from the bottom – and the third boater, lying ten feet from the bottom of the stairs. He rose to his elbows with seaweed in his hair and began retching up water.

"Rick?" Anna had the house phone in her hand. "It's me. Listen, there's been a mishap offshore. There are people washed ashore, and it looks like a boat is about to run aground behind the Onimuras'. Would that be something for the Coast Guard, or…" She listened for awhile. "I'll let you handle it then. Thank goodness someone knows what to do, I'm sure I wouldn't know where to start. Thank you, Rick." She hung up. "Police and emergency vehicles will be here in minutes. Everyone inside."

Kat snatched up her towel and wrapped it around her as she headed in. Anna helped Roxy put her feet from the deck chair to the concrete, and spread a towel over her shoulders as she sat up.

Sarah carefully gathered up her wrap and refastened it as she watched the guy on shore, her face still blank and unreadable. He got shakily to one foot and hand, trying to stand. He looked up and saw her watching, and started to say something, but whatever he saw in her eyes stopped his voice.

Holding his eyes, the Princess very deliberately hooked a thumb into the fabric joining the cups of her top and lifted, exposing her rack for two seconds, before tucking it back in place and turning for the house.

Roxy looked at the dumbstruck guy. "I never saw anybody get mooned like _that_ before."

Anna helped her to her feet. "I don't know what that was about, but it's very clear those boys struck a nerve."

-0-

The menfolk came home without warning about an hour before dinnertime. Sarah was in her room, dressing after a shower. Even though she wasn't going out tonight, she'd felt an inexplicable desire to dress up, and now, dressed only in a sheer bra and panties, was lying on her bed, the one farthest from the door, squirming into her tightest jeans. They made her rear end look magnificent, she'd been told, and they were comfortable enough after she'd worn them for a little while, but they took some work to get into. She had them halfway up her thighs when she heard a tap at her door.

"Sarah," John Lynch said, "I need to talk to you."

She stopped pulling. "Come in, then," she said. "It's not locked."

He stepped in quickly and closed the door, then saw her and looked up at the ceiling; she noted he wasn't wearing his eyepatch. "I could come back in a minute."

"Why? You've seen more of me than this." She resumed pulling, wriggling her hips to get the waistband over them.

"For a brief second. Totally unnecessary."

She emptied her lungs and fastened the brass stud, then zipped up. "Around the pool, I mean."

"Your swimwear's not translucent."

"You're such a gallant knight." She raised one knee, then the other, stretching the seat. She gestured towards her tank, lying on the other bed a foot from his knee. "Mind?"

He tossed it to her and rounded the unoccupied bed. He sat down on its edge, facing her. She sat up as well, making no move to put on her shirt, and faced him, their knees almost touching. She put on a faint smile. "Do I make you nervous, Mr. Lynch?"

"You know you do. But not because of any calculated show of immodesty. I know an attempt at misdirection when I see one."

Something hard and brittle, something that had formed inside her like a crystal when those boys had staged their heartless joke, crumbled and disappeared. So did her smile. She slipped her shirt over her head and drew her feet up to sit cross-legged on the bed. "All right." _Sorry_ would have suited her mood better, but she hadn't said that word since she'd left the rez to hitchhike to La Jolla; she'd said it enough for a lifetime in the scant hour she'd been with her family.

"I want to know why you nearly drowned three boaters practically in my backyard, bringing a platoon of official visitors to my door."

"They've been hanging around all weekend, making nuisances of themselves. Mr. Ricci's men ran them off once, but they just don't know when to quit."

"That's not the whole story. Not even close."

She took a breath and let it out. "No one was injured. Nothing points to us."

"It was reckless, Sarah. And, while I've seen you behave recklessly before, this was unlike you." His voice lowered. "I could question those boys. But I'd rather not. I'm certain their story would be different from yours anyway. What started this?"

-0-

"Roxanne," Mr. Lynch called down the basement steps. "Are you down here?"

Roxy traded glances with Kat, who was lying on the weight bench and talking with her between sets. It hadn't been much of an exercise session. She'd followed Kat down here on the pretense of spotting her sister, but, really, she was hiding. The guys had been home for half an hour, but she wasn't ready to look Grunge or Mr. Lynch in the eye just yet. "Do you think…"

"Of course he does," Kat whispered back.

"Down here, Mr. Lynch," she called.

He stepped down the stairs and approached the bench. "Caitlin, if you need a spotter, I can call Bobby down here."

Kat shook her head. "He's with Sarah by the pool. I think she dressed up to welcome him home. They're talking and everything. I don't want to interrupt that."

He nodded, then turned back to Roxy. "Do you want an audience for this?"

She folded her arms across her stomach. "Guess not."

"Then come with me." He led her into his bare office. Instead of putting her in the chair in front of the desk, he led her around the desk to the padded chair on the other side. As he settled into the guest chair, he said, "I was talking to Anna. And Sarah."

She nodded glumly. "So now it's time for my lecture."

"So now it's time to talk."

"I told them everything. Kat too."

He folded his arms on the desk. "I only asked Anna about the fallout from the boat incident, and the business earlier in the day. Sarah told me something about why she blew her cool today. They didn't tell me everything, and I didn't want them to." He leaned forward. "You're going to do that."

-0-

"It was stupid," Roxy concluded fifteen minutes later. "But it was all I could come up with. I should have done _anything _else, I see that now."

But Mr. Lynch didn't seem angry. "It was risky, I agree. But things could have gone much worse. And it worked."

"Too well, almost. I would have had it coming, I guess."

His brows gathered. "Eh?"

"If we'd ended up…" She shrugged. "You know, the way I acted. But I had to make him want to leave with me."

"Roxy, before he offered you a ride, did you ask him if he'd like to screw around?"

"What? _No._ But I'm sure he was expecting it."

"Did he suggest it?"

"Gawd, no. I'd never have gotten in the car."

He leaned back. "Then all you did was express an interest in his company, and he in yours. Everything else was still negotiable and conditional. You didn't buy a ride in his car with a promise of sex, young lady. When did you agree to go to his place?"

"Um, about five minutes before we got there. I didn't know he was headed that way."

He nodded. "Let's talk about the drinking."

She swallowed. "Rather not." Dinner was less than half an hour away, and would be the first solid food she'd had all day – if she could get it down.

"Let's anyway. If he was sure you were a willing partner, Roxanne, he might have shared a drink with you first, but he wouldn't have risked spoiling you for the main event by pouring booze down your throat until you had trouble walking." He leaned forward and put his arms on the desk again. "He wasn't trying to loosen you up. He was drowning your reservations."

She shook her head. How could he not understand? "What could you expect, Mr. Lynch? He's a _guy_." She looked at the desktop. "I mean, they are what they are, and they do what they do."

A moment of silence. "So I've heard you say," the Man in Black said quietly. "I just didn't understand your full meaning till now." He twined his fingers together. "Roxanne, how old was your mother when you were born?"

She blinked at the change of subject. "Seventeen."

"And when you were conceived?"

"Sixteen, I think."

He stood and looked towards the door, his back to her. "Alex would have been almost forty then. How did they meet?"

She shrugged. "She never told me. She said he was training at Fort Dix when Gramps was stationed there. I know she used to be super wild when she was younger. I figured they met at a party or something, and ended up getting stoned and stupid together in some motel." She shrugged again, even though he couldn't see her. "'S just what happens."

"And he didn't ask or care about her age, and forgot he was married with a child. It's just what happens. What if telling Eric your age hadn't deterred? What then?"

She shrugged. "Dunno. Guess I might have come home a different girl."

"I loved Alex Fairchild like a brother," Mr. Lynch said. "But sometimes, I _so_ wanted to kick his ass. But never more than this moment." He shook his head. "The man had no governor on his libido. He chased every skirt that caught his eye. He never talked about it to me, but I'm sure he cheated on Colleen a hundred times. I wouldn't be surprised to learn you and Caitlin have sibs scattered across the U. S., Europe, and Asia." He turned to face her. "Roxy, do you really think that's all a woman has any right to expect from a man?" His voice lowered. "Do you think Bobby would ever get one of you girls drunk so he could screw you?"

"_No_. But… Bobby's special."

"All right, then, Roxanne, what about Eddie? Mister Rubbers-in-the-Wallet? Would he scheme a way to push a girl's objections aside to have his way with her?"

She looked at the desktop again. "No."

He leaned across the desk and lifted her chin with a finger. "You didn't sound nearly so sure that time."

She looked into his eyes, live and dead, and said slowly, "I'm sure. I just… I don't think he'd ever turn down an offer, though."

"Maybe not. But that's not the same as believing a woman's right to consent is just something to be gotten around."

Mr. Lynch, what are you going to do?"

He let go of her chin. "Whatever I do, you've got no part in it. Events have moved past you. Go wash up for dinner."

She huffed. "Yes, Dad."

-0-

Eric moved absently about his townhouse, preparing to go out for the evening – and checking the preparations for his return. He had a bottle of Dom and a meat and cheese tray chilling in the fridge, a chick flick waiting in the DVD player in the living room (and softcore in the one in the bedroom), and a few scented candles waiting to be lit. He didn't usually go out on Sundays, especially not on a pussy hunt, but the events of the previous night had left him restless and… dissatisfied.

Not that he hadn't gotten laid last night. The second girl he'd brought home had been some bleach-blonde cheerleader from USC who skied, studied art, and liked being handcuffed. She was all right, but nothing special; Eric, being a guy who seldom slept with the same girl twice, would have to be seriously hard up to ever call her again.

The incredible little dancer, Roxanne: _that_ was what had stirred his loins last night. He really had been thinking of her most of the time he'd been banging Miss Bondage. What an _epic_ tragedy she'd turned out to be jailbait. Not that he had a moral objection to that – old enough to bleed, old enough to butcher, as his dad said - but the conservative law firm where he was maneuvering for a partnership demanded an incident-free record, for fear of any scandal tarnishing the firm's spotless reputation. The senior partners lifted eyebrows over points on your driver's license; a morals charge, even if acquitted, would end any chance of rising in the firm, and might even cost him his position.

A conviction, of course, carried consequences to his future that didn't bear thinking about. But he'd have had no fears on that score. As a lawyer, he knew how easy it was to create reasonable doubt in the minds of a jury in such cases, so long as there was no physical evidence. And there wouldn't have been. He always used condoms, and no female left his place after sex without a thorough shower; he usually washed them himself, just to be sure, making the precaution seem like play.

Still. She'd been fun, just to play with and talk to, almost enough to make the evening worthwhile. And those eyes had a way of drawing you in and setting you floating on a sea of pleasant thoughts. But when she'd danced, she'd changed from a sexy little package into the goddess of sensual delights. He'd watched her moving to the beat like a flame in a gentle draft, every sinuous movement or touch of her hands on her own skin intended, seemingly, to fill a man's mind with imaginings of her in his arms and in his bed, and it had been all he could do to keep from crossing the room to take her. It was damn lucky she'd told him her age before they'd gotten to the bedroom.

The little-girl kiss at the gate had been a surprise and very weird; so had her talk about him being a 'gentleman'. It had made her seem even younger, and he'd felt a little twinge of guilt for still wanting her. Not that it had stopped him from staring hard at her ass when she'd gotten out of the car.

Skip had called this morning from the boat, asking about his night – asking if he'd scored at the party, really. Instead of telling him about the mediocre lay he'd picked up as Hobson's choice, he'd found himself recounting an edited tale of the one that got away. He'd only meant to drop a hint or two, but Skip had pressed him hard for details, and he'd found himself elaborating a bit at a time until, finally, he was sending him the picture of her he'd snapped on his cellphone camera. Skip's admiring remarks had finally led Eric to elaborate past truth. He'd never admit to having been led astray by jailbait, of course, so he'd left that detail out, and added the expected ending to the story. If only it had been true.

If she'd been just _three_ years older, he really would have finished what he'd started with her, and she'd have woken up beside him next morning, puzzled and sore. And, instead of going out tonight in search of some sexual junk food, he'd have had her back for a rare encore performance. He was sure he could have talked her into it; the second time was always easier. He smiled. What the hell, it was the weekend; why let her go home at all? Till Monday morning, anyway.

Immersed in these pleasant thoughts, he pushed open the door to the garage. The light was on, which was odd; he was sure he'd turned it out earlier. Then he noticed the tires on his Jag.

He frowned as he stepped into the garage. The tires on this side were flat, the rims settled to the concrete; the way the car was sitting, the shoes on the other side must be down too.

He froze as the door behind him clicked shut. "Turn around," A deep gravelly voice said. "Let's have a look at you."

His first thought was that he was about to be robbed. He turned, keeping his hands at his sides, trying to look unthreatening. But then he got a look at his visitor, and decided looking threatening to this guy probably wasn't an option.

A comic-book villain was leaning with folded arms against the wall, where he'd been hidden by the door when Eric had entered. He was an older guy, and kind of looked like he was cosplaying Nick Fury, Agent of SHIELD: big and muscular, with a patch over his left eye, wearing dark clothes and a gun in a holster at his left shoulder. Only… the holster had rubbed spots, and the black gun had little scratches in the finish; they looked like they'd seen lots of use, and not at a pistol range. And the black outfit, though well-cared-for, looked like work clothes, not a costume. And the scars on the man's face and neck weren't makeup. This guy had been in a fight for his life with something once and come out on top. He might look like a comic-book villain, but he was as real as death.

_Mercenary commander. SWAT captain. 'Security' consultant._ "You're Roxanne's dad."

The man seemed about to say something, then paused. "Or someone here on his behalf." He straightened up and stepped towards him.

"I didn't know she was underage, honest to God," Eric said. "I didn't have a clue. I mean, she was _smoking_ when I met her, for crissake. I took her straight home as soon as I found out."

"I know," the man said. "She told me. That's why we're having a conversation." He stepped closer, until they were less than an arm's length apart. "But I think, long before you knew she was a child in a woman's body, you saw past that worldly-girl façade. Not right away; she's been working on it for a long time, and many men wouldn't see through it at all. But women are a hobby of yours, aren't they, Eric? You enjoy being around them. You watch them, study them, admire them, even – just the way a deer hunter feels about whitetail." He folded his arms again. "And you display an equal lack of mercy once the hunt begins."

"Mister, I don't-"

The man went on talking. "You spotted the troubled vulnerable girl behind the mask before you arrived home, I'm guessing - or at the latest, when the alcohol first hit her. And you knew then that, whatever reason she'd had to leave with you, whatever it was she wanted from you, it wasn't casual sex."

Eric swallowed. _Father, for sure. And thoroughly pissed._

"That was your chance to do the right thing, _before_ you knew you could go to jail for touching her: take her back or take her home, and go back to looking for a proper one-night-stand. Or you could have taken her for her ride, even entertained her at your place. She's good company, if sex isn't the only pleasure you get from women. You could have kept it aboveboard and had a good time and brought her home at midnight, and I'd have thanked you."

Eric eyed the gun. _If he fired it in here, the neighbors would hear. Probably. They wouldn't come to investigate, but they'd call the cops._ Only, this man didn't seem the type to be worried about the police.

"Instead, you saw that vulnerability as an opportunity to use her. She just switched in your mind from 'easy lay' to 'easy prey', and you went to work. You never gave a thought to what you might be doing to her life." The dark man circled like a wolf, and Eric turned to keep an eye on him. They stopped when the man was between Eric and the car. "It would have been her first time, did you guess that? I think you did. Did it make your conscience itch, even a little? Or did it excite you?"

The man was no longer standing between Eric and the door, and it was just a step away. If he could get through the door and lock it …

"You don't want to run from me, son," the sinister-looking man said. "You really don't."

_What are you going to do?_ He wanted to ask. Only, he didn't really want to.

The man inclined his head towards the Jag. "Beautiful car," he said. "What did it cost you, sixty kay?" Without waiting for an answer, he went on. "I'll bet you've lured more than one girl into it with a promise of a ride, haven't you? I found her shoes under the passenger seat, by the way. I'll be taking them with me." He put his face into Eric's and Eric couldn't help flinching away from that one-eyed stare. "When I leave here, there's not going to be a clean piece of sheet metal on your little pussy wagon. I'm going to smash the windshield, break out the headlights, and dent every body panel. Then I may bust the taillights, just to finish it off."

That put a little moisture back in Eric's mouth. The car was completely insured, of course; any damage this man did would be fixed in a week. Hell, if he totaled it, Eric would be driving a new one the next day. Being sure to keep his face and manner grave and penitent, he nodded. "Okay. I guess I deserve that."

"I thought you might say that, you toilet brush."

Eric's breath exploded out of him as he folded around the man's fist. As his vision darkened, he felt his shirt front and belt buckle being seized, and he was rushed, stumbling, to the car and flung over the fender and hood into the windshield. He rolled down the hood and dropped heavily to the floor, without breath to groan. He felt a stabbing pain in his shoulder: dislocated, or maybe something was broken.

A black shoe appeared beside his head. Strong hands grasped the back of his collar and belt, lifting him almost off the concrete. He found a little breath. "Whuh, wait…." He found himself on hands and knees, nose-to-nose with the Jag. The hood was dented, and the windshield was caved in and fogged with cracks.

The hands gripping him lifted again. "Headlights next."

18


	17. The Trouble with Girls, Part 1

Saturday April 3 2004  
Cuyamaca Rancho Park

Their guests arrived two hours before sundown. Eddie heard the faint purring of motorcycle engines in the saddle below, echoing up to them and growing louder as the vehicles approached. He stashed the skin mag he'd been studying into his bag and stepped to the door of the tent. He glanced at Bobby and the L-man, who were talking in low voices by the fire and making no move to greet visitors.

Eddie grinned to himself, wondering which of the tasty numbers Amilee worked with had decided to come along. When the three of them had returned to the diner for dinner, he'd noticed right away that a new stable of hotties had taken over. Danae, their waitress, had been supernice, but another of the girls, the short one with the long dark hair tied back in a tail, had filled cups, cleared dishes, and detoured several times to ask if they needed anything - a lot of unwarranted attention for a table that wasn't hers. Bobby had asked if she knew Amilee, and it turned out all the girls on both shifts hung out together. She'd chatted about her blonde friend from the breakfast shift, the merits of several area campsites, and a bunch of other stuff. She'd tried to engage the L-man in the conversation a couple of times, just to be polite, Eddie supposed. But Bobby's dad had retreated behind his coffee cup and noncommittal remarks.

He adjusted his pants and sauntered to the edge of the road to wait.

The first vehicle to round the gentle curve was Amilee's blue crotch rocket, and she looked just as fine stretched out on it as she had on her previous visit. Eddie smiled and gave a little wave. _Don't look too eager. Play it cool._

Then the second bike rolled into view, and he thought there'd been a mistake. It was a touring bike of some kind, kind of old-fashioned, with no fairing or fiberglass to cut the wind or streamline its shape. It mounted a weird-shaped center headlight, rectangular instead of round. Its curved handlebars ended a foot or so above the sides of the tank, which was black with a pair of gold wings on the side. The exhaust and plumbing on the engine were finished in chrome and brushed aluminum. He didn't know much about big bikes, but he didn't think it was a Harley; it didn't sound right. Its rider, sitting upright, wore blue jeans and heavy shoes, a black leather jacket and gloves with the knuckles cut out, and a black visored helmet with a tinted faceplate. _She brought a guy along instead?_

Amilee stopped at the edge of the road, shut off her engine, and, still astride, took off her helmet. She gave Eddie a grin which slid up the slope to the campfire. "Hi, guys." She dismounted, swinging a leg behind her and giving him a lovely glute flash, and unlocked her seat. She locked her helmet strap underneath, leaving the brain bucket hanging outside. Then she unstrapped a small bag from her rear fender and swung it by the strap; Eddie decided that, if it was an overnight bag, Amy liked to travel light. She took a couple steps toward the fire, as if she'd forgotten she'd arrived with someone, then stopped and turned back as the black bike purred to a stop beside hers.

The rider shut her down and dropped the kickstand, then unbuckled the black helmet and lifted it off. Eddie felt the air go out of him like a punctured tire. The second rider was a girl, too. Sort of.

"Eddie," Amilee said, "this is Cally. You two come up when you're ready." She hurried up the slope.

Eddie tried not to stare. He knew that the fems at the Darwin Academy, and the ones he shared a roof with at the beach house - Anna included - had raised his standards for female pulchritude. But he was sure that, by any standard, Cally was as plain as an old shoe. Her face was round and soft-looking, and the kindest thing that could be said about her features was that they were all there and in the right places. She wasn't ugly or disfigured, but there was nothing about her to hold the eye. Her eyebrows were heavy and thick enough to make him wonder if she shaved between them. Her hair was medium brown, clean but without the shampoo-ad luster of Rox's or Sarah's or Kat's, and looked like it would be shoulder-length if she untied it. No makeup he could see. Her look was total butch dyke. At this point, he kind of hoped she was.

Cally's eyebrows went up as she watched her friend hustle away. Then she turned her attention to Eddie. "So. Eddie. Amy says you want to learn to ride." Voice surprisingly feminine.

"Well…" His eyes strayed to Amilee's bike.

Still astride her machine, she turned to perch her helmet on the seat's low backrest. The seat was long and oddly shaped, the front half sort of down between the front and back wheels, but the back half sitting higher over the rear tire. Eddie realized that it allowed a shorter passenger to see over the driver and view the scenery. "You don't want to learn on that. You can't see anything if you're flat on your belly. And you can balance easier sitting up." She swung a leg over the tank and stood; he noted that she was half a head taller than he was, maybe five-nine. "Climb on." She unzipped the front of her jacket, and Eddie couldn't help giving her an instant's glance. Her figure was as unremarkable as her face, not overweight, but thick-waisted and mannish.

He took a deep breath and surrendered. _If Sarah could see, she'd be laughing her ass off._ He grasped a handlebar and swung a leg over.

"Don't sit yet," she said. "Stand the bike up and see if you can put your feet flat on the road."

He took hold of both handlebars and complied, and found that his butt compressed the seat a little, but he was able to stand astride with no problem. She nodded. "Good. A new rider is most likely to dump coming to a stop or taking off, specially if he can't reach the ground without leaning over." She smiled, showing small even teeth like dentures. "Don't want any scratches on either of you, right?" She pulled the bike backward. He stepped back, a little clumsily, and had about half a second to wonder what she was doing before he felt the seat rise under him, pushing him up on his toes. The rear wheel lifted off the gravel and clunked into a solid rest. "Center stand. Okay, put your feet on the pegs."

He lifted his feet. The bike held steady as if it was cemented to the ground. His thighs and upper arms were now horizontal, and slightly spread by the wide tank and handlebars. It put him in mind of riding a horse English-style. "What is this thing, exactly?"

"This," she said, "is a 1984 Honda Magna. Eleven hundred cc's, almost twice the size of Amy's scoot. It's a little much for a beginner, I think, but it's a perfect bike for a girl with riding experience. Very low maintenance – just mind the tire wear, tune up the carbs and change the oil every spring, and keep an eye on the seals, and it'll last forever."

He took his hands off the grips. "No offense, but I was hoping to take my first ride on something a little less reliable and a little more…"

"Capable?" Cally's eyelids drooped. "Look at the gauges, Eddie."

He looked down at the big dual gauges between the grips. The one on the right caught his eye first, the one labeled RPM X 1000. _Ten grand redline?_ Then he looked at the other, the speedometer, and when he saw the top-end figure, he checked carefully to make sure the numbers were miles-per and not kilometers-per. "Is that for real?"

"Realer than real. I've pegged it. Not often. You need a road as straight and clear as a runway, and the wind'll tear you right off the seat if you don't lay down and brace your feet on the back pegs. And it feels like your tires aren't touching the road, just floating an inch off the asphalt on a cushion of air. Scary, but how could I not, at least once? I'm not about to let you do that, though." She caressed the headlight housing. "But my baby will take you from dead stop to legal limit in about five seconds, if you can hang on to the grips, and you'll only be in second gear. And legal limit may not seem all that fast to a cager, but it's way different when the wind is squeezing tears from your eyes, and your pant legs are flapping so hard they buzz, and the road is going by eight inches under your shoes like a giant sanding belt."

"Cager?"

"You know." She flicked a forefinger at the rental car. "Bumpers with shock absorbers, steel rails in the doors, airbags all around. Most people don't even drive with the window down, just go from point A to point B looking at the windshield like it's a TV screen. It's no wonder you see so many of them eating or reading or texting or yapping on the phone. Driving a car is _boring._"

She cupped a hand around the end of the handlebar and met his eyes. "Bikes are quick and maneuverable, and if he stays alert, a practiced rider can avoid a lot of accidents a car can't. But a motorcycle doesn't forgive human error. The only protective equipment is what you wear. And it's just amazing how hard it is for somebody driving a car in traffic to see a motorcycle. They'll turn in front of you, pull out in front of you, follow a foot behind you doing sixty, even change lanes right next to you and shove you to the shoulder." She smiled. "But then, there's the wind, and being able to hear birdsong while you ride, and a view everywhere you turn your head, like flying along on a magic carpet."

Eddie laid his hands back on the grips. "Sign me up."

-0-

"Sure you're okay with this?" Amilee looked back over her shoulder at the campsite as it disappeared around the bend. "I could tell you didn't want to leave him alone."

Bobby kept walking up the road towards the ridge top. "It's okay. My dad's kind of a loner anyway." He had misgivings, just the same. But not about his father. He'd told Eddie he didn't want to be alone with this girl, and here they were, headed for the most secluded spot within walking distance.

Amilee had chatted at the fire for maybe ten minutes before she'd invited Bobby to share the sunset from the top of the ridge. He'd glanced downslope at the impromptu parking area, to see Eddie sitting on Amy's girlfriend's cruiser, easing it forward. The girl had given it a little push to send him down the road. The ape was grinning like a little kid staying upright without the training wheels for the first time. No help there, he'd decided.

"Three's a crowd," his father had said with his eyes to the flames. He'd been withdrawn – more withdrawn than usual, rather – since they'd come back from their walk before dinner. Even the extra attention he'd gotten from the girls at the diner hadn't moved him. "If you come back after dark, stick to the road and make some noise, and the critters should leave you alone."

So now he was trudging up this hill for the second time today, watching the sun make for the treetops to his left and the stars just beginning to show in the east. They'd have to walk all the way to the top for a clear view, he decided; though they should make it in plenty of time, it meant they'd be coming back in full dark. He wondered if the moon would be out to give them some light. If it had been Sarah walking beside, he thought, she could tell him when the moon would rise, and where, and what phase it would be in. Then again, if Sarah were here, she'd probably be taking this walk with someone else.

"Pretty," Amilee said, glancing at the wildflower-dotted hillside.

"It gets prettier a little later in the year, my dad tells me. You've never been up here?"

"Sure. And it's always pretty." She shifted the shoulder strap of her fabric bag, about the right size for a camera and lenses.

"What's in the bag?" _That you couldn't leave at the campfire?_

"Oh, just stuff. Be prepared, and all that."

-0-

"You learn quick." Cally's voice was raised a little in the thirty-mile-an-hour wind, even though neither of them was wearing a helmet and her chin was almost on his shoulder. "Stop sign coming up. Apply the rear brake first, don't forget."

"Got it." Eddie pressed gently on the rear-brake pedal before he squeezed the hand control that closed the front disc. He worked the other hand and foot as well, taking the bike back down the gears. A light on the tiny instrument panel flashed as he passed neutral on the way to first. The bike reached the sign, stopped, and seemed to pause, as if deciding whether to fall over, and he put his feet down before the first wobble.

"Smooth," she said into his ear. "You're a natural. Really." She kept her feet on the pegs and her ungloved hands resting one over the other on his stomach, letting him do the balancing. She'd told him the worst thing a passenger could do was lean unexpectedly, which could throw the bike out of control. So anyone inexperienced riding pillion should sit against the backrest like she was strapped to it. Or an experienced rider could stay close to the driver instead and move with him, which allowed for better control of the bike. Cally was practicing the latter method, pressing up against his back and circling him in her arms, which, she'd told him, made it easier to anticipate his moves.

Eddie grinned. "I _got_ to get me one of these." Her hands were warm through the cotton of his tee. Her voice was warm too, and her breath on the side of his head stirred the hair resting on his ear. The grin fell off when he glanced in the handlebar mirror at his passenger's face. He engaged the clutch carefully, and thought he'd made a smooth takeoff, but the bike lurched and stalled and he put his feet down hastily as it tipped. Cally tightened her grip for a moment as he fought gravity, then relaxed when he brought their ride back to vertical.

"Whups." She gave his stomach a little pat. "Happens. You recovered, that's what counts. It needs just a little more gas on takeoff with a double load."

Eddie swallowed and took off again, this time without mishap. Once they were purring down the road in third, he said, "So, you work at the restaurant?"

"I cooked your eggs this morning, Over Easy. All six of them. And the double order of hash browns, pound of bacon, and half a loaf of toast."

"Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, right?"

"And for dinner, two appetizers, a twenty-ounce T-bone with all the trimmings, and two orders of chocolate cake and ice cream."

"I have an active metabolism. What made you decide to come out here today?"

"Oh," she said, "Just looking for something different to do, I guess. Turn left at the next intersection, and we'll cross back over. Stick to the park roads. We don't want to risk the highway."

"Traffic?" After five minutes' instruction on the center stand and a couple of miles solo, Eddie felt ready for any challenge.

"That too, but you don't want to get pulled over without an endorsement." She straightened a bit. "Oops. I never asked. Do you even have a license?"

_Which is another way of asking my age._ "You bet." _Even though I'm years too young to apply for one. Thank you, Mr. L._ "I know I'm not supposed to ask, but how old are you?"

"Sokay. Twenty-two this June. You?"

"Twenty-one-and–a-half," he said, his lie matching the birth date on his license.

"Hm. Good thing this isn't a date. Somebody might call me a cradle robber."

Eddie didn't rise to the little joke. Without looking into the mirror, he said, "Cally… do you like guys?"

"Well, I like you. Does that count?" She ran her fingertips up and down the ridges of his abs; when he stiffened, she gave his pec a little squeeze. "Mmm. _Nice._ You must work out a lot, huh?" She snorted in his ear. "Don't worry about it, Eddie. Just enjoy the ride and don't think so much." Her hands settled loosely over his navel again.

Eddie negotiated the unmarked intersection without stopping, swinging left with Cally pressed up against his back. Up ahead, the road they were traveling crossed the two-lane highway that followed the saddle bisecting the park into east and west halves; a stop sign marked the intersection. Eddie brought the bike to another smooth stop, and Cally signaled her approval with a brief squeeze. He was about to take off across the road and head up the hill to the campsite when she said, "Wait. I think I know that car."

He looked south, and saw a pair of headlights on the road, unusually high and close-spaced. After a moment, he saw that the headlights belonged to an old Jeep with its top down and doors off. They waited while it rolled up. The driver and sole occupant was the dark-haired girl he'd been half expecting earlier, now out of her uniform. Very much out of uniform, he decided: she was wearing a short belly-baring sleeveless tank, and cutoffs that were short enough to make Eddie swallow, artfully razor-slashed along the sides to show even more skin. He noticed the shoelace-thin strap of her thong riding high above the denim on one hip, and swallowed again.

The Jeep reached them and stopped. "Hey," the girl said.

"Laurel," Cally said. "You changed your mind. Again."

"Guess so. Hi, Eddie."

"Hi," he said, wondering how this was going to play out. He felt reluctant to just brush Cally off for another girl, but…

"Where's everybody?" Laurel glanced to her right, uphill towards the campsite.

"Bobby and Amy are paired off, natch," Cally said. "He's probably alone at the campfire by now. Are you sure about this, girlfriend?"

Eddie frowned, confused. _Who are they talking about?_ _Not…_

"Not really," the little beauty said. "I'm just sure I don't want to go home tonight. Wish me luck." She turned the Jeep up the road and rolled away.

"Something wrong, Eddie?" Cally's voice was amused rather than upset. She placed a hand over his ear, and he knew she was catching enough heat from it to warm her fingers. She chuckled. "I don't think we should head back to the campfire right away. Switch with me, and I'll take you to dinner."

"I already had dinner."

"I know how you eat. You're ready for another one. Besides, maybe you can drag the waitress and reinflate your ego."

-0-

Lynch looked up from rebuilding the campfire to watch an open Jeep CJ-7 roll up to join the trio of vehicles parked at the side of the road. _I wonder if there's a per-campsite limit, and what it would cost to get the park ranger to overlook it._ Then the driver slid out the open side, and he blinked. _Good God, what young girls wear in public these days. _He returned his attention to the fire. "Hello. Laurel, right?"

"Right. S'prised you remember." She approached the fire and held her hands out, warming them. "Where is everybody?"

"Bobby and Amilee headed up the hill to watch the sunset. Eddie and the other young lady – We didn't get introduced-"

"Cally. I saw them on the way up."

"Our hikers haven't been gone long. I'm sure you could catch up."

"If it's all the same, I'll wait here."

Lynch stepped back from the rising flames and sat down on a log. "Be my guest. I'm afraid I've got nothing to offer you but the fire, though."

"Sokay. I've got a cooler in back of the Jeep. Beer and bottled water. You like Corona?"

He looked across the fire at her. "Laurel, are you old enough to drink?"

"Didn't say _I_ wanted one."

"If you're not old enough to drink, you're not old enough to buy."

"My boyfriend left them in the fridge. It was either bring them with or throw them out. Do you want one or not?"

He stood. "I'll get it."

She rubbed her hands together and smiled into the fire. "Bring the cooler. It'll save a walk later."

Lynch found the cooler, a large one that filled the small cargo compartment behind the rear seats, sitting next to a large camera bag. The cooler's top had dual lids; he lifted one and found bottles of Corona and Evian packed in ice. He closed it up, carried it to the fire, and set it down behind the girl. "Looks like it'd make a good seat." He removed one of the Mexican pales and returned to his log.

"Made for it, matter of fact." She lifted the lid, presenting her rear end to him briefly as she bent over. She removed a Corona and sat again as she twisted off the cap. "Didn't say I _didn't_ want one, either."

"Laurel…"

"Uh-oh. My dad gets the same look on his face when he's about to give me a lecture."

"Glad to hear you've got a dad who cares."

"Actually, I think he just likes giving lectures." She hoisted the beer in salute and took several deep swallows. Then she set the bottle into a recess in the lid made for the purpose, placed her palms flat on the lid, and stretched out her bare legs. She had sandals on her feet: not flip-flops, but lightweight leather footgear, and almost as easily removed. She pulled down a heel strap with a toe, kicked it off, then repeated with the other, and pointed her toes prettily toward the fire. "I know you're Bobby's dad, but I didn't get your name at the restaurant."

"John. Friends call me Jack."

"You have a lot of friends?"

"More than I deserve." He sipped at the brew, which was a great deal lighter than his usual taste; his Mexican beer of choice was Dos Equis. "Where's the boyfriend?"

"Elsewhere. Mind if I ask a question?"

"Never, as long as I'm not required to answer."

She studied him for a moment. "The scars. What happened?"

He considered how much truth to give her. "It happened when I was in the service, before you were in kindergarten. I'm still not supposed to talk about it."

"What, it's classified or something?"

"Yes."

"Hm. A guy tells me a story like that, I usually just roll my eyes. But you, I believe. Do they bother you?"

"Not nearly as much as they bother everybody else." He took another swallow. "So, how long has he been gone?"

"Who?"

"The boyfriend. I presume you're not clearing his stuff out of your fridge just to be tidy."

Laurel pulled her bottle out of its recess. "Rather not talk about that right now. I hate it when I'm on a date and he can't shut up about the ex-girlfriend."

Lynch swallowed his initial response to that while she took a swig. Looking past her, he saw that the sky was now a lovely turquoise, and the wispy clouds turned to gold by the sun setting in the trees behind him. He knew it would only last a few moments, though, before it disappeared. The most beautiful things were always short-lived. "Still going to school?"

"Community college in the mornings, maybe five credits a term. Rate I'm going, I may end up the school's oldest graduate." Laurel set the bottle between her thighs and leaned back, again placing her palms on the lid. "So, what do you do for a living?"

"I'm retired."

"Made your pile early, huh? What are you, forty? Forty-five?"

"Thanks. I'm fifty-eight."

"That's hard to believe."

"Truth." He remembered a night, seemingly half a lifetime ago, though it had scarcely been two months, when he'd been alone with another young girl with odd notions of modesty. He added, "Old enough to be your grandfather, I think."

She picked her beer up and started peeling the bottle's label. "I sure picked the wrong outfit to wear up here, didn't I?"

"There's plenty of wood. I'll keep the fire stoked up."

She scoffed. "I'm not cold. But I should've… you haven't looked below my neck since I walked up. Are you embarrassed?"

"No." He lifted his butt off the log and leaned forward to rearrange the fire and add a few sticks. "Above the neck is the most interesting part of you."

She smiled at that. "My face?"

"That too," he admitted.

"So I'm not a total bimbo?"

"No." He put some more wood on the fire. "It must be tough for you sometimes. Girls with your looks have a hard time getting taken seriously. I think some of them must just give up."

"Especially the ones who flash skin for tips. Don't see many of them reading Camille Paglia."

"They should. She has a lot of good things to say about women who show skin for money."

She stared across the fire at him for a minute or two while he fussed with the coals, making the fresh wood blaze up. When he sat back on his log and picked his half-empty bottle from the ground, she said, "It's not usually this hard."

"What?"

"Figuring out whether a guy's hitting on me. I can't decide whether you're for real, or just real smooth."

He hoisted his bottle. "Let me make the decision easy. You need to leave before you touch another of these. And I'm not leaving this side of the fire until you do." He took a draught, nearly emptying the bottle.

"Hey, sorry. Wasn't trying to piss you off. " She stared at her bottle. "Not really sure what I was trying to do. But not that."

"You didn't. Laurel, I don't understand what you came up here for, but I know it's not me. And I don't think you should drink any more, not with a long downhill drive in the dark ahead of you."

"Jack." She leaned forward, almost hunched over. "I didn't come up here to jump your bones. Not even. I've never even dated a guy over twenty-one. But … you're not much like the forty-year-olds who come in looking for a big meal and some eye candy. I just had this weird feeling about you, like you'd be good company if I could get you to talk. But I could hardly get a word out of you at dinner, and I … guess I was looking for a way to shake you loose." She ran a palm along the top of her bare thigh. "Older guys at the diner always make a big deal about my legs. I just wanted you to talk to me. But I only know one way to reach a guy, I guess."

"I doubt that. But I'm not easy to reach at the best of times, I'm afraid. And right now I've got a lot on my mind."

She murmured something into her bottle.

"What was that?"

"I put his stuff on my front porch and left a message on his phone before I came up here. If he doesn't pick it up tonight, it goes to the curb, and if he doesn't leave my key, I'm changing the locks. I haven't seen him in a week. The son of a bitch won't even tell me we're broke up. He just doesn't answer when I call or text, the frickin coward, and he's never home when I drive by."

"At least he didn't drop you on the curb," Lynch muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing." He shifted on the log. "Laurel, I've got a very bad track record with women. I can see you're hurting. But I think it would be… hypocritical to commiserate with you about what a jerk your boyfriend is."

She stared across the fire at him. "Your idea, or hers?"

"We sort of took turns." He stared into the flames.

She digested that for a moment. "At least you're busted up about it, not looking for strange before her clothes are out of your crib." She looked at him in silence for a few seconds more. "Would you… would you mind if I sit over there?"

-0-

"Well," Amy said, "we're here." The road swung south just before it reached the crest, giving them a great view of the hills to the west. The sun hung just above the ridge, and the clouds all around were beginning to turn to gold. "I love sunsets, even though they kind of make me sad sometimes."

"They do?"

She smiled. "Only when I'm alone." She unzipped her bag and stuck a hand in. "I got some chron."

Bobby's nostrils flared. "No, thanks."

"Mind if I?" When he didn't object, she brought out a large prescription bottle. She unscrewed the cap and shook out a disposable lighter and a couple of slender joints into her palm. She lit one up and took a toke before she put the lighter and the other joint back in the bottle, replacing the cap. She took another hit and offered him the joint again. "Sure?"

He shook his head. "I quit a while back."

"A while back," she said, amused. "How long ago was 'a while back', old man?"

He studied the reddening sun. "I was ten."

The joint paused an inch from her lips. "Word?"

"Yeah."

"Dad caught you and kicked your ass, right?"

"No. He doesn't even know." He added, "I used to buy it with stuff I stole."

She snorted and fisted his shoulder. "Now I _know_ you're lying. You don't look like you'd bring back a library book late."

"Saw the error of my ways." He found a tree, an evergreen rising from a carpet of brown needles, and sat with his back to the trunk. The needles were fragrant, and a little prickly under his hands, but felt soft enough under his butt through his jeans. "Your jacket in that bag?" She wasn't wearing the black leather jacket she'd arrived in; he couldn't recall when she'd taken it off.

"No. You cold?"

"I don't get cold." _Not anymore._ "But I bet the temp will drop like a stone once the sun's half down."

"Yeah. It does. I think it must be the elevation." She settled in beside him, and he moved aside to share the trunk. She shifted to put her back against it, and their hips and shoulders touched. She sat cross-legged, resting a jean-clad knee on his thigh. "I come up here a lot. Think I might've had my back on this tree before, even. There's another spot at the north end of the park that's even nicer, but it's closed right now." She took another hit and stubbed the roach on the sole of her shoe, then put it back in the scrip bottle. When she put the bottle away, her hand rummaged around inside for a moment and came out with a small clear bag, like a sandwich bag but smaller, with what looked like a folded square of aluminum foil inside. "Ever see one of these?"

"No."

She pulled out the shiny square and unfolded it again and again. When it was the size of a newspaper, she said, "Space blanket." She shook it out until it was big enough to cover a bed. "No cush, but it's tougher than it looks, and it breaks the wind. And it reflects body heat like crazy." She spread it across them both.

Bobby looked down at the shiny material. "I feel like a baked potato." At her smile, he said, "What?"

"Oh, just having some thoughts about butter and sour cream." She turned to him and put her shoulder to the tree. "You camp a lot, then?"

"No. First time, actually."

She smiled. "Missing your Nintendo yet?"

"Talk to Eddie about that. I'm missing my guitar."

"Guitar, huh? You any good?"

"Some people say so."

"Too bad you didn't bring it. Guitars and campfires go together. How'd you get into it?"

"Well, my last foster dad was always trying to get me into stuff. Guess he thought I needed an outlet or something." He stared up at the sky, which was beginning to turn to fire. "He scored with the guitar. I took to it right away. He offered to buy me lessons, but I was already doing double classes in school, so the last thing I wanted was another teacher."

"Double classes?"

"Remedial. I missed a lot of school when I was younger."

"Sick?"

"No. Just absent."

"Ah." She moved a little closer, and he felt her breast touch his upper arm through four layers of cloth. "So, you're adopted? I was sure I saw a resemblance."

"No. He's my real dad. He didn't know about me." He shifted slightly. "You said you go through the park on the way home? Where do you live?"

"Julian. It's maybe eight miles north, a little town about five blocks square. Kind of touristy, but not really."

"Sounds nice."

"Every guy my age who lives there, I've known since kindergarten. That's not so nice."

"Surprised you never left. A hundred guys must have offered to take you away."

"Oh, I did. I came back."

"Oh? Where'd you go?"

"Couple places. Vegas was the worst – climate, people, everything. Colorado wasn't bad, but I couldn't find steady work. Besides, I guess I got homesick." She slipped an arm behind his waist. "Gotta draw it around for the full effect." She tucked the blanket under his butt. "Warmer already, huh?" Her other hand slipped around his waist at the front, and her fingers twined. Her chin rested on his shoulder.

"Yeah." Her perfume was all over him, and he could feel her breast pressed firmly into his upper arm. "Amy-"

"I know." Her breath caressed his ear. "This is as far as we're going. It's okay." After a short silent time, she pressed her nose into his neck. "Woodsmoke. I love that smell, it's one of my favorite things about camping. I bet she's beautiful."

"Who?"

"The girl you broke up with."

He looked at the scenery. The sun was behind the trees, and the fire in the sky was peaking. "I didn't break up with anybody. I don't have a girlfriend."

"Hm." Her lips brushed the side of his jaw as she turned her head to look at the last of the sunset. "I'm no expert on guys. My list of loser ex-boyfriends is as long as your hand. But when you two walked in the restaurant this morning, every girl on staff was sizing you up. By the time you planted your butts on the benches, we all knew you were broke up over a girl, just like we knew Eddie was pissed off at one. I got two offers to switch tables before you even ordered."

He frowned. "Why?"

"Cuz, when you see a sweet guy who's been done dirt, it makes you want to represent, you know? Show him we're not all like that." She smiled. "Can't let a guy with your looks decide to swear off women. There's few enough good ones out there as it is."

The sound of a car engine grew, amplified by the quiet. Bobby stirred, remembering his father's earlier disquiet at the prospect of visitors. "Expecting someone?"

Her grip around his waist tightened a little. "Nobody in particular. But you said you went back to the diner with your dad. He might be old and messed up, but he's still nice, and I love his voice, and his broke-up-with-the-girlfriend vibes are even stronger than yours. I wouldn't be surprised to see Julie or Danae down there when we get back."

-0-

Eddie set his fork down on his empty plate. "Good eats," he said. "But I don't think I'll be dragging the waitress."

"Maybe you should," Cally said with a smile. "Just to, you know, stretch yourself. Girls your age can't be much challenge."

The waitress, a heavyset fifty-year-old, made an appearance as Cally set her glass down. "Refills?"

"Thanks," Cally said.

"Dessert? We got seven kinds of pie, and vanilla ice cream goes good with most of em."

"Probably," she said with a smile for Eddie. "Can we hold off on that awhile?"

The woman glanced around the dining room, which held only two other patrons, trucker types sitting at the counter. "They're not exactly lined up out the door tonight. Take your time. I'll be back." She gathered up the empty dishes and left.

Eddie looked around at the roadhouse Cally had brought them to, miles from the truck stop where she and the other girls worked. The furnishings looked like relics from the Fifties: mismatched linoleum tile on the floors; chromed tube-steel chairs with cracked red leather on the thin cushions; speckled Formica on the table- and countertops; a grill and exhaust hood black with age. The walls were a shade of yellow that he didn't think came out of a paint can. "Gotta say, I wasn't expecting much when we walked in. Just the smell of old grease would've turned me around."

"The place is cleaner than it looks," she said, smiling. "But it's, like, seventy years old. You're not going to get rid of the smell of ten million hamburgers with a little Febreze. It's soaked into the framing studs by now."

"Why'd we come here? The truckstop's closer."

She glanced at her wristwatch, a mannish type that reminded him of Kat's. "Because I have to be there in seven hours to get ready for the Sunday morning rush. That's soon enough."

They lingered another hour over pie and coffee. Cally might be plain as an old bucket, Eddie thought, but she was easy to talk to. A lot of people didn't do conversation well: some could never find something to say; others wouldn't let you get a word in edgewise, or, if they did, what they said next showed they hadn't even been listening to you, that they'd just been waiting for you to quit talking so they could speak. Cally was a good listener, one whose comments made it clear she was thinking about what the other person said, and made the talk a dialogue. He found himself making another comparison to Kat, which seemed kind of crazy, considering the polar opposition of their looks.

"So," she said, "how did you and Bobby meet?"

"School," he said. "We were in all the same classes."

"What school?"

He hesitated. "MacArthur."

She smiled. "Geeks, huh? Looks _can_ be deceiving, can't they?"

"Yeh." Trying to change the subject, he said, "Is 'Cally' short for something?" It wasn't a topic he usually discussed, given his sensitivity to his name, but he'd once known a girl named Indiana, and thought his table companion might have been named for the state of her birth.

"Yep." Cally hoisted her cup and looked at him over the rim.

When it became clear she wasn't going to volunteer the information, he said, "California?"

"Nope." Her cup was still raised, eyes watchful.

Eddie wondered if he was treading on thin ice. But Cally seemed more amused than anything else; he decided that she simply wanted him to guess. "Caledonia? Um, Calpurnia?" He shrugged. "All I got."

Over the rim of her cup, she said softly, "Will he laugh? Maybe a little." She set her cup down. "Calliope."

He raised his eyebrows. "Really."

"Dad swears he named me after the Greek muse, but Mom says I was a colicky baby, and I squalled a lot the first few months." She smiled. "Doesn't matter either way."

"Grade school must have been tough," he offered.

She made a dismissive face. "You get over that stuff, or you stay a little stuck in grade school forever. Somebody finds out now, it's just a conversation point."

Eddie grinned, a little self-consciously. He found himself wishing Cally was a guy; it would be so much easier to relax with her and just be pals. Again, he wondered if she was gay. Her answer earlier hadn't really satisfied him. Maybe she was bi, like Sarah claimed to be; Eddie imagined Cally got more interest from girls than guys, and wondered if she was dating someone from the restaurant. "Cally. You ever wear makeup?"

She snorted. "I know what I look like. Might as well put lipstick on a pig." She leaned forward. "You, on the other hand, would make a very pretty girl – from the chin up. Love your eyes."

_Bi_, he thought, swallowing. _Definitely._

-0-

Laurel lifted the lid of her cooler and pulled out two more pales, bringing them to the other side of the fire. She passed one to Lynch and sat on the log with a foot of space between them – on his right, the unscarred side, he noted.

"Laurel," he started.

"I won't leave before I'm sober, don't worry." She popped her cap and took a swig. "Don't usually drink beer. I think knowing they're his makes them taste better."

"You miss him that much?"

"I think he's missing his beer that much." She set the bottle on the ground between her feet. "So. What brought you guys up here?"

"Well." He twisted off the cap. "Originally, it was supposed to be a short vacation from women."

She scoffed. "Messed _that_ up pretty good, didn't we?"

He shrugged. "My idea, not theirs. I guess they didn't share my enthusiasm for a male-bonding trip."

Laurel glanced sidelong at him with the bottle touching her lips. "You and Bobby get along?"

He took a swig before answering. "I think so, but that's about all. I wasn't in his life for a long time."

"Bad divorce?"

He thought about the short note his wife had left on the bed. _It's time to go when I see you sitting on the back steps with your gun under your chin and it doesn't scare me anymore…_ "The worst."

"She still shouldn't have kept him from you."

He didn't know how to answer that; he sipped his beer instead.

"What about the girlfriend, the one you just broke up with?"

"What about her?"

"Was she younger?"

"Thirty." He regarded her carefully. "Why do you ask?"

"Had a feeling. I bet there aren't many women your age can keep up with you." She dropped her hand on his where it rested on the log.

"Christ." He stood.

She looked up at him with startled eyes. "Hey. I didn't mean anything. Sorry."

"You told me you weren't cold. Your hand is a block of ice." He hustled into his tent and came back out with his sleeping bag.

"It's just my hands. Really."

He unzipped the bag fully, turning it into a quilted blanket. "Unless you've been dipping them in ice water, cold hands means lowered body temp. Your system's trying to compensate by withdrawing body heat to your core, like shock." He took two corners and sat beside her again. When she reached for it, he said, "No." He raised and spread it like a wall behind and around her, cupping the fire's warmth. "Let the fire warm you up a bit first."

She glanced back at his outstretched arm passing behind her shoulders. "How long do you think you can hold it out like that?"

"As long as it takes. You need an outside source of heat right now."

"Yeah?" He jumped when she slid an arm around his waist. "Well, you're a lot closer."

-0-

Cally smiled. "Your mom and dad sound like rocks."

"They are." Eddie nodded. "The best, really."

"They must be pretty proud of you for getting into MacArthur."

He drained his cup. "I like to think they're proud of me."

Her smile faded a bit as she studied his face. Then she reached into her shirt pocket and drew out a pair of amber-colored aviator glasses. "Here. You need eye protection, especially if you're gonna drive back in the dark."

"You mean it?"

"I don't kid around where my bike is involved. Just don't do anything juvenile."

-0-

"Okay," Amy said, "not a breakup. That means it's even worse. She doesn't know. No, that doesn't feel right. She's got a boyfriend, or…" She shifted again. "Don't tell me she just wants to be friends. Not that."

He shook his head. "I told you. No girlfriend. Can we drop this?"

"Okay." Her hand dropped to his thigh and caressed it briefly before she jerked it back. "Sorry. Don't know why I did that. How did you get back together with your dad, if you were in foster care for years? Did he file a suit or something? He must have wanted you pretty bad."

"Amilee, I know you're just trying to help. But I really don't want to talk about it."

"Well, what do you want to talk about?"

"Nothing." He slouched down. "I'm no good at talking."

"Bobby," Amilee said softly into his neck, "it doesn't have to be me, but you really need to talk to somebody. Seems like every other question I ask hurts. That shouldn't be. Don't you have someone?"

He shrugged, staring up at the stars. "I don't know." _Only one. Not worth the risk though, not if it changes the way she looks at me forever._ "Maybe."

-0-

"_Eddie!_" Cally screamed in his ear. "_Slow the fuck down!_"

The Magna's engine ran wild as they crested the low hill doing seventy and the tires briefly left the pavement. He felt himself lift off the seat as the road in the headlight briefly disappeared. They touched down, shoving his butt back into the cushion, and Cally's forearms bounced off his thighs.

"_Curve!_"

The two-lane road bent left, and a guardrail loomed in front of them, with nothing but darkness beyond. Eddie leaned hard over, Cally matched his move, and the Honda tipped until their left knees were a fist's width from the pavement. Eddie whooped. The road straightened briefly, and they righted.

The ride was incredible. The sensation wasn't like grokking something with Gen, but it felt similar: it seemed as if he and the bike were reading each other's minds, and both of them were talking to the road beneath them. On impulse, he'd twisted hard on the throttle, pulling a little gasp from his rider, and sent the vehicle down the road at ever-increasing speed.

Cally had shouted warnings in his ear and squeezed him hard as he'd zoomed down the hilly two-lane that led back to the park. But the whole time she was bitching, she was settling tighter against him, anticipating his moves and matching them. It was almost like dancing, he thought, the ballroom kind, where the dancers were alert to their partners' slightest signals. The Magna was feeling frisky, and the road obliging; Eddie gave the engine some more throttle. The wind pulled at his hair and found its way around the rims of his shades, making his eyes water.

"Swear to God, you're never gonna ride my bike again!"

"I know!"

The road curved to the right, a slightly gentler turn this time. But the guardrail was gone, a twisted mess pushed over the rim of the dropoff, testament to an earlier disaster. He spotted gravel in the lane ahead, and checked his lean. Cally cursed and matched this move as well, and the bike drifted smoothly across the double yellow center line towards the dropoff, giving them a scary view of the steep downslope whizzing by, and then swung back into the proper lane.

Cally's hand cupped his crotch. "Next stop sign, these are mine."

Eddie swallowed. "Guess I'll just have to run every stop sign we cross, then."

Her hand withdrew. "_Asshole_. What do you think you're doing?"

"Like you said, it's my last chance."

"If I'd skimped on tires, we'd be a smear at the bottom of a cliff right now."

"I knew you'd buy the best for your baby." The road leveled and straightened, and oncoming headlights appeared around a distant bend. He slowed down. "Cally. Why didn't you just reach past me and pull the key?"

Her knees pressed against his outer thighs, squeezing. "I sort of thought about it, but I couldn't quit coming long enough." She shivered and exhaled, her breath warming his ear. One of her hands lifted to flatten against the center of his chest; the other described a slow circle on his belly. "Jesus."

-0-

The purring sound of a motorcycle echoed faintly up to them. "Getting crowded up here," Bobby observed.

"Eddie and Cally coming back, probably," she said. "Maybe they'll stop at the site."

The sound grew louder, and a moment later, Eddie rode into view, with a passenger riding pillion - the girl Amy had brought along, presumably. Although this was the first time she'd been close enough for Bobby to see clearly, the bike's headlight had stolen his night vision, and her features were unclear in the darkness. Bobby shrugged free, gently, and stood.

Eddie brought the bike to a stop and put his feet down, leaving the engine idling. "We interrupting?"

"Sure." Amilee stood and began folding the blanket. "Who's sharing the fire with Bobby's dad?"

"Laurel," said the other girl. She had a very nice voice, Bobby thought, kind of like Lori's.

"Laurel? What-" Amy caught herself. "She broke up with him again."

"Yeh. Not talking about it, but she's been crying in the ladies' all shift."

Laurel, Bobby remembered, was the short slender girl with the long dark ponytail who'd been sort of hovering around his dad all through dinner, trying to prod him out of his funk; she'd reminded Bobby of Rox, a little, in attitude as well as looks, and he had a hard time imagining her turning weepy out of sight of the customers.

Amy said, "Do you think they're … okay down there?"

"You know how she gets. Is _he_ okay?"

Confused, Bobby said, "What are you talking about?"

The girl on the bike said, "Laurel doesn't deal with boyfriend trouble very well. All she'd need to do something really stupid right now would be some jerk offering her a little false sympathy."

Bobby shook his head. "He wouldn't." _I think._

Eddie coughed, just a little throat-clearer. "We went by the camp on the way up here. There's nobody at the fire. All the cars are still there. And both the tents are dark."

"So maybe they went for a walk."

Eddie nodded, too enthusiastically. "Yeh."

-0-

"I really didn't want to be there when he came for his crap. That's why I came up here, someplace he wouldn't look for me."

Lynch and Laurel were sitting on the log, wrapped up together in the sleeping bag with only the hands holding their bottles outside it. Lynch's bottle paused on the way to his mouth. "Think he might get violent?"

"No. I just don't think I should talk to him. It's prolly a good thing he's not answering the phone." She tipped up her quarter-full bottle and emptied it. "This isn't the first time I threw him out. I don't know why I take him back. I don't even think I love him. There ought to be a twelve step program for ditching guys like Neal." She slid out of the blanket and rounded the fire to the cooler. She pulled two more beers out.

"Laurel," he said, feeling tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep or exertion or alcohol.

She looked across the fire at him, eyes dark and shining. She pulled two more beers out of the cooler, holding the four bottles by their necks between her fingers. "Jack, we both know I'm not going anywhere tonight."

-0-

Cally glanced at her wristwatch. "Well, guys, it's been fun, but I've got work tomorrow." She leveled a look at Eddie. "You can have a ride back if you want, but I'm driving."

Eddie put on his most innocent expression. "If you're leaving, Cally, I'll just walk back with these guys." Eddie gave his thin-lipped bunkie a lopsided grin. "Better late than never, right?"

"Should have left earlier. I probably won't be in bed for an hour yet, and the alarm clock goes off in five. But I won't gripe over the lost sleep." Cally offered him a grin and a hand to shake.

Holding on to her hand, Eddie said, "Thanks for the riding lesson."

"Asshole," she said amiably. "Nobody learns how to ride a bike like that in one night. You gotta play every girl you meet, don't you? Even one you wouldn't date on a bet." She removed her helmet from the low backrest it had been buckled to all night. "I was always curious what made guys like you tick. Most girls figure you're all just jerks walking around with your puds out all the time, but that's not you at all. You just got some strange wiring in your head." Cally's helmet paused over her head. "I had a good time tonight, Eddie. It's a real change of pace, just having fun with a guy who's not trying to get in your pants." She put her bucket on. Then she toed the stand up, walked the bike backwards to the road, climbed on, and fired it up. She gave a little wave as she purred away.

Eddie watched her all the way around the curve. "Was that a joke?"

Amilee gave him a measured look. "End of shift, she's got a guy waiting at the door almost every night. I'm pretty sure she's never had less than three boyfriends on the string the whole time I've known her. It's not always about big eyes and a perky rack, Eddie. Cally's _exactly_ what a lot of guys are looking for – a girl who's not playing games, who genuinely enjoys the company of men and knows how to make a guy feel special. We call her 'the cooker with the heart of gold'. You had fun with her, didn't you?"

"Yeah," he said, surprised by the discovery. "I did."

"And if you weren't such a trophy collector, you might have had a lot more." She looked down the road at the wavering light of the motorcycle's headlight. "I don't know where she picks them up, or how they find her. A few are from the stop, but not many. They must network or something. Sometimes I wonder how she handles them all."

-0-

"Laurel," Lynch said, "it's time for bed."

"Hm?" The dark head nestled against his shoulder stirred. "'M fine right here."

They were still sitting on the log, wrapped in the sleeping bag, facing the dying fire. A dozen empty bottles lay on the ground at their feet. He slipped out of the blanket and stood, holding the girl to keep her from falling over. Then he took Laurel's hand and tugged until she rose unsteadily. "Go sleep in the right-hand tent. I'll bunk with the boys."

Her eyelids lifted, though she seemed far from awake. "Jack, could you go get my bag? It's a little leather one, kind of purse size."

"I've seen it. I'll be right back with it." He retrieved the bag, returning to find her sitting on the cooler, still wearing the sleeping bag, wiggling her feet into her sandals. He handed the bag to her. "Off you go."

"Off I go into the woods. Gotta tinkle." She wobbled off past the tent. "Oh, this is gonna be fun."

He stood by the fire, alert for her call or any other sign of trouble, until she emerged from the trees. She hesitated by the tent, seeming about to return to the fire. He extended his arm to point at the tent, and she ducked inside the opening.

Lynch waited a minute more, then walked to the woods on the opposite side of the camp to answer his own call of nature. While he stood there, he saw a headlight on the road through the trees, and heard the familiar engine note of the motorcycle Eddie had ridden away on. It passed the camp, headed up the hill.

He returned to the fire, stoked it, and picked up the empties and dropped them into the cooler. While it was open, he fished an Evian out of the ice and glugged it down; water, he knew, was an excellent hangover palliative if administered generously prior to sobering up. He was reaching for another when, from Laurel's Jeep, he heard the soft burr of a phone. He ignored it, and it stopped.

The black motorcycle came back down the hill with a single rider. The helmeted head turned his way, and a hand lifted briefly in greeting as it rolled on.

The phone in Laurel's Jeep went off again, ringing six times before it shut off. Seconds later, it rang again. He wrestled with his conscience until the phone cut off. Then he moved to the vehicle and reached it just as the phone rang again.

By the third ring, he found it in the console. He pressed the 'send' key and held it to his ear. "Yeah?"

A moment of silence. "_Where's Laurel?_" A young man's voice. _"Put her on the phone."_

Lynch glanced toward the dark tent. "She's unavailable. You're Neal, I suppose. What do you want?"

"_I want to talk to Laurel. Now._"

"It's a little late in life to learn you can't have everything you want, Neal. You've got a lot of disappointment ahead of you."

"_She's been blowing up my phone for a fricking week. Don't tell me she doesn't want to talk to me. Who the hell are you, anyway?"_

He leaned on the Jeep's side rail. "Good to hear you've been getting the messages. Especially the last one. She doesn't want to talk to you anymore. She's not yours anymore. Go back to the one you betrayed her for, if she'll have you."

"_I'm coming over._"

"Do that. You won't see her there, but you can pick up your things and leave her key. The police have already been notified about what's going on tonight, so don't get any ideas about going inside and taking out your frustrations." A bluff, even if it had been true; if Laurel lived in a town big enough that the cops and residents didn't know one another by name, police involvement in such a potential domestic dispute would be limited to a couple of extra drive-bys at most.

"_Who is this?"_

"You already know. Did you think it would take her a week to find a man who'll treat her better than you ever did? We were lining up at her door as soon as word spread she was done with you."

"_Listen, asshole,_" Neal said, almost growling. "_I don't care what she's been telling you. You're wasting your time. She just gets pouty when I don't pay her enough attention, is all. Then she goes crying on the nearest dawg's shoulder. She's using you. Even if I don't talk to her right now, we'll be talking tomorrow, and by next day she won't remember your name. So why don't you just put her on and go home?_"

"I am home," Lynch said. "She's in my shower right now. In half a minute, I'll be joining her, and before we step out, she's going to scream my name. Again." He disconnected the call and pulled the phone's battery just as he heard a scuffing sound. He didn't turn.

Laurel said, "Has a woman ever screamed your name?"

He stuffed the phone and battery into the center console. "More than once. But always with a gun in her hand." He turned then. She had the sleeping bag around her shoulders, holding it closed from inside; it covered her from neck to ankles. She'd removed her sandals again, he noted. Standing between him and the fire, her face was silhouetted and unreadable. "I know I overstepped. I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well, Neal's good at pushing people over the line."

"He doesn't seem the type to give up easy. I'm sure you'll be seeing him again."

"Tomorrow, at the restaurant," she agreed. "_I'm_ sure he'll want to know all about you. What do you think I should tell him?"

"That it's none of his business anymore. If he won't accept that answer, turn your back on him. Call a cop, if you have to. Make a clean break with him."

"Clean break, right." She stepped quickly to him, spread her blanket-covered hands and brought them together behind his neck, wrapping them both in it and pressing up against him. She was naked underneath.

"No." Lynch reached up and grasped her wrists.

"What's wrong?" She tipped her face up, inviting a kiss. "I know you want to."

"No man worthy of the name could be cold to what you're offering me, Laurel. But you're young and hurting and drunk. You need a good night's sleep and an aspirin in the morning, not a one-nighter with someone who's not Neal." He disengaged her hands, wrapped her carefully in the sleeping bag, and turned her to point back to the tent. "Go."

She shuffled towards the tent. She was halfway there when he heard the first sob. "Bastard."

"Laurel-"

"Not _you. God_, no." She went on to the door of the tent and disappeared inside.


	18. The Trouble with Girls, Part 2

Sunday April 4 2004

Cuyamaca Rancho Park

Bobby woke to bright soft light. The front panel of the tent glowed from morning sunshine. A glance showed Eddie in his sleeping bag, making little stirring sounds. They were alone in the tent. Last night, after Amilee had said her goodbyes and left, the men had talked around the fire about nothing much until it had burned down, then headed for the left-hand tent. John Lynch, still in his clothes, had stretched out without covers on the floor of the tent between Bobby and Eddie. But he wasn't here now, and Bobby had no idea when he'd gotten up. Laurel had been inside his father's tent by the time Bobby and Amy and Eddie had arrived from the hilltop, but Bobby wondered whether she'd been asleep or just waiting.

He decided that teeth and hair could wait. He pulled on jeans and shirt and shoes and unzipped the tent. The air outside was quite a bit cooler, and crisp as a fresh apple. When he looked out, he saw his father straightening up from the fresh-laid but unlit fire.

Bobby walked out to join him. The raw dry wood was already beginning to smolder from the heat still in the embers of last night's campfire. He said to his father, "Morning."

"Good morning. You're up early."

"Not really," Bobby said. "This is about the time I always get up." He might have added that this was the first time since they'd reunited that his father was around and awake when he got up, but he didn't. John Lynch spent a lot of time out of the house without explanation, but Bobby was fairly sure those absences had something to do with keeping them all out of IO's hands.

His father reached for the big cooler, presumably Laurel's, that sat by the fire. Bobby said, "Need a hand with that?"

The older man hesitated. "Sure. Take one end."

Bobby grabbed one of the folding handles and lifted at his father's nod. He decided that his dad could probably have carried it alone with no problem. _Well, duh. How did it get out of the car in the first place?_ They set it inside the little cargo bed.

"Thanks," his father said. "I don't know how soon she has to leave, or how fast she'll be moving. She had a lot to drink last night."

Bobby said cautiously, "She seemed nice."

"Yes." But he didn't say anything more.

The zipper of the right-hand tent rose, and Laurel appeared. It was the first time Bobby had seen her since dinner at the restaurant the night before, and the change was startling. He thought at first she was standing there in her underwear before he saw that she was dressed in a very short crop top and razor-slashed cutoffs that were briefer than her uniform. Her eyes were heavy-lidded and sleepy-looking, her lips full. Her hair was undone and draped over her shoulders and breasts in an unruly tumble. She looked just the way a girl should look after a night of lovemaking.

With a soft _foof_, the thread of smoke above the teepee of sticks disappeared, and flames jumped up to replace it.

Laurel squinted. "Ecch. Don't _look_ at me."

Bobby's father gave him a glance. "It's always been a mystery to me that women don't know how beautiful they are in the morning."

"Lemme breathe on you. Then tell me how beautiful I am." She put out a hand to grasp the side of the door opening. The canvas flexed, and she stumbled. "Shit. Gotta be to work by eleven. I've got four hours to get human again." She disappeared back into the tent. The structure swayed, and Bobby heard a muttered curse. She reappeared with her bag. "Could I have a bottle of water, please?"

John Lynch reached into the cooler and pulled a half-liter bottle from the ice water. Bobby was sure he'd walk up and hand it to her, which she was plainly expecting. Instead, he gave it an easy underhand toss of ten yards. It thumped to the ground and rolled to a stop at her feet, and she bent carefully to pick it up. Then she turned for the woods.

After she disappeared, Bobby's dad said to him, "Did you have a good time last night?"

_Did you?_ "Yeah. We should get kicked out of the house more often. I talked to Kat on the phone yesterday. They all had plans to go out, so I guess the girls had fun too."

"Ready to go back?"

He nodded. "By suppertime, anyway. School tomorrow." _And there's someone I need to talk to tonight, and it may take awhile._

A few minutes later, Laurel reappeared, looking fresher and with her hair bound behind her in a thick tail. Her eyes fastened on Bobby's father. Bobby said, "Think I'll take a little walk," and headed down the hill.

"See you, Bobby," the girl called after him, and started down the slope to join Lynch at the Jeep. She said in a low voice, "We didn't. Did we?"

"No."

She nodded. "Didn't think so, but I wanted to be sure. I woke up without any clothes on." She stepped closer and looked up at him. "I don't remember putting them back on, but I don't usually sleep raw, either. And I sort of woke up last night, thinking I heard that zipper easing open."

He said, deadpan, "Maybe it was a mountain lion looking for something tender."

"It wasn't anybody. I was dreaming." She looked out over the sunlit hills. "This is kind of awkward. I remember crying in the tent because you wouldn't come with me. But now I feel this kind of weird relief that you didn't. It seems like apologies are in order, but I'm not sure for what, or who should start."

"I can't imagine what you'd need to apologize for. If I upset you last night, I'm sorry." He looked toward the landscape as well. "But if I had a chance at a do-over, I don't suppose it'd be any different."

She scoffed. "I can understand her breaking up with you. But, sure as I'm standing here, I know she'll always wonder if she made the right choice." She placed her forearms on his shoulders. "Glad I brought a toothbrush." She kissed him, hard, pressing him against the side of the Jeep with a demanding hip. When he put his arms around her waist, she pulled her head back and smiled. "Are you wondering, just a little?"

"More than a little." He gave the small of her back a little pat. "Say hello to Neal for me."

She giggled at that, picked up her bag, and stepped up into her Jeep. "If you want to say hello to him, I'll give you his number. I don't think I'll tell him a damn thing."

Lynch watched the Jeep disappear around the bend before he turned back towards the campsite. Eddie was watching from the front of the tent. "Breakfast at the stop, Mr. L?"

"Or lunch, depending on when we break camp." He approached the fire and held his hands up to its warmth. "Home's only an hour away. Missing the girls?"

Cautiously, Eddie said, "Which girls would we be talking about?"

Lynch chuckled, startling the boy. _Has he really never seen me laugh?_ "Have you called home?"

"Once." He approached the fire. "I was kind of discouraged from calling again." He rubbed his hands together. "What do you think? Was it really that bad?"

"Well, it certainly sent a signal. Did she interpret it properly?" Lynch moved a step closer to the fire, and the boy, and lowered his voice. "Who were you planning to share them with?"

"Nobody. It just seems like a guy should carry a couple, just in case. Like a pocket knife, you know? And guys bum rubbers from each other all the time. I'd feel like a dork if I couldn't ever produce."

Lynch quirked a smile. "Almost like admitting you're a virgin, eh?" It occurred to Lynch that Eddie's explanation would be a very tough sell to any female under thirty. He lowered his voice again. "What does Bobby think about all this?"

"The Quiet Man? He doesn't say much, but he knows what the school scene is like – at least, the dawgs I run with. But he's not part of it. He doesn't have to be. If somebody asked _him_ if he could spare a glove and he said he didn't have any, they'd just figure he was fresh out or had plans for what he had on him."

Lynch's eyebrows rose. "Really."

Eddie nodded at the fire. "This thing with Amy, it's not what you'd call a singular event. I see it at school all the time, in the lunchroom and the library or even at his locker. He's never alone. He takes an empty table in the library, and a girl he's never met will walk past three other empty tables and sit right across from him without so much as a hello, then lay out her books and crowd his space - just trying to get him to say something. You'd think he was an old boyfriend she's thinking of getting back with, swear. And now he's playing guitar onstage for a hundred drooling coeds with Mel and her girlfriends. You couldn't convince one guy in school that Bobby Lynch isn't getting any."

-0-

The minivan's dash chimed before they reached the highway. From the shotgun seat, Eddie saw Bobby glance down between the spokes of the steering wheel, frowning. "Gas light."

"Thought you filled up just before we hit the park."

"I did. The pump kicked off after a couple gallons. I thought maybe the gauge was off. But I don't feel like finding out the hard way."

Eddie looked ahead. The L-man's rental was leading by half a dozen spaces. The gas station they'd stopped at day before yesterday would come up before the restaurant, but Eddie doubted Bobby's dad would get all the way to the truck stop before he noticed they weren't following. "You're driving, dude."

As soon as Bobby slowed to turn into the station, the L-man U-turned and met them under the canopy. After Bobby explained the problem to him, he said, "Prudent not to ignore it. A bad gauge is a nuisance, but a tank that won't fill can be a sign of larger problems. Does it run okay?"

Bobby gave a little shrug. "Seems to. Haven't taken it over fifty since I gassed up."

"Try to fill it. But, instead of watching the pump, _listen_."

They each bent an ear as the fuel gurgled into the tank, listening to the deep echo. Bobby said, "Sounds empty," just as the pump snapped off.

"What causes that?" Eddie asked.

"Pressure differential," the Man in Black said. "Just keep restarting it. Go dead slow, that should help. Keep listening. You'll know when it's full."

"Okay." Bobby restarted the pump, sending a trickle of gas into the tank. "Amy says the restaurant gets crowded on Sunday mornings. Lined up out the door, even. Why don't you go on ahead and grab seats?"

The L-man hesitated, seeming about to say something. The pump clicked off again. Bobby restarted it. "I don't need you to watch me fill the frikkin tank, Dad."

The old dude turned without a word, got in his rental, and left. It occurred to Eddie that this was the first time he'd heard his bunkie call the L-man 'Dad' or anything like.

The pump shut off again, and Bobby restarted it. This was going to take a while, Eddie thought. "You know, there's signs all over this place telling you not to do that."

"I think that's just to keep people from spilling gas on the concrete. I'm sure it's safe." Bobby stared down at the handle. "Otherwise, he'd have taken it out of my hand and done it himself. As if I'm ten years old or something."

"Still pissed at him?"

"I don't know." Another shutoff and restart; Eddie thought the sound of the gas splashing down the tube into the tank was a little higher-pitched now. "Not really. But I can't just pretend the last fourteen years never happened. I can't just step into this long-lost-son role he's got scripted in his head. We've got to feel each other out and put together the relationship as we go." Another shutoff and restart. "He's sure not the dad _I_ had in mind, back when I still daydreamed about having parents."

A car came down the road, slowing as it reached the station: a big old sedan with chrome bumpers and trim strips and protruding door handles. Eddie saw that the front plate was covered with a dirty rag. "Dude."

Bobby looked up at the car as it pulled to a stop in front of the glass doors, right on top of the 'no parking' stripes. The driver was sandy-haired and in need of a trim. He got out, and they saw that he was tall and none too tidy, dressed in jeans and a scruffy green jacket with lots of pockets that might have come from a surplus store.

"Low profile," Bobby said, and put his head down as the man looked around from beside his car. Eddie guessed the jerk was trying to decide whether to wait for them to leave. Eddie dropped his eyes and pretended to be watching Bobby fill the tank.

"We don't need Gen, dude," Eddie said in a low voice. "Just grab him when he comes out."

"And hold him till the cops get here?"

"Tie him up and leave, then," he said desperately.

"Which would make the police more interested in us than in him." Bobby lifted his eyes to the canopy overhead. Eddie didn't follow his look; he'd already seen the black plastic bubbles of the security cams.

"Crap." Eddie watched the bandit make his decision and walk into the store like a man on a mission. "What's the use of having super powers if you can't do a little good once in awhile?"

Bobby pulled the nozzle out and hung it up. Eddie noted that the meter read eleven gallons, not nearly enough to fill the mom-van's tank. "Hot day."

Eddie frowned. "What?" Not only had the remark come from nowhere, as if Bobby hadn't been listening; the midmorning sun had barely brought the temp into the mid-seventies yet. Then he glanced toward the door of the station, and saw the air above the perp's car shimmering with heat.

The door swung open, and the car's driver charged out, laden with snack bags. From inside the building, a woman's voice screeched. He made a grab for the driver's door handle and yelped, jerking back his hand and dropping half his loot. He flapped his hand to bring the sleeve over it and tried again.

"Bro," Bobby said as he opened the minivan's driver's door, "time to go."

Eddie paused at the shotgun door. Back at the getaway vehicle, the bandit clumsily swung his door open. Even from forty feet away, Eddie could see the oven-like heat pouring out, and smell hot leather and plastic. Sweat broke out on the guy's face, and he paused, then seemed to take a deep breath and gingerly eased into the opening. The instant his back and rear touched the seat, he nearly went through the roof.

"_Eddie._"

Eddie hurriedly got in and buckled up as Bobby pulled away, headed for the road. In the side-view mirror, he saw the store's door slam open. The cashier he'd talked to last Friday hustled out with a wooden ball bat in her hand. The Cheetos bandit was cramped inside his car, knees braced against the steering wheel and back arched to keep his butt out of the seat, his head mashed sideways against the headliner, his face red and pouring sweat. He stared at the approaching girl with widening eyes as he frantically fumbled with the keys. He dropped them when she swung the bat and the driver's-side window exploded in a shower of glass. He covered his head as she drew back for the next swing.

The minivan's tires gained the pavement, and Bobby accelerated away. "Hope she called 911 before she came out," he said. "That guy's gonna need help."

Eddie said, "Love you, man."

San Diego

Bobby shifted on the hard plastic chair in the repair shop's tiny waiting room, trying to distract himself from the reek of brake fluid by watching his father talking to the service tech at the counter. Bobby thought the exchange worth studying; it was the first time he'd seen the Man interacting normally with normal people.

Not that the interaction was entirely normal. The service guy's face had blanked when the big scarred man with the eyepatch had pulled open the door and marched to the service desk; he'd leaned right over it, making the poor guy kind of shrink back. The tech's unease had faded quickly, though, he'd smelled money, and he'd turned friendly and helpful and talkative. Bobby didn't understand much of the conversation, not being a gearhead, but he saw the mechanic turn kind of wary again when he realized this prospect knew enough about cars to have already diagnosed the problem and knew exactly what work he wanted performed. At the end, John Lynch had been doing most of the talking, and the tech had been nodding. Right at the end, Bobby's dad had made a short remark that had made the guy smile and bob his head more vigorously. John Lynch turned and caught Bobby's eye and they went out the door.

Eddie was sitting in the minivan's shotgun seat, idly thumbing through the vehicle's owner manual, thoroughly bored. He looked up at their approach. "Well?"

Bobby's dad said, "The work will take a few hours. We'll be leaving it. Clean it out and put everything in the car."

Eddie and Bobby glanced into the back, which held all their camping gear. "Clean it out?"

"That's right," the older man said. "The pockets and compartments, too. I don't want a scrap of paper left inside."

Eddie huffed. "Maybe we should wipe it down, get rid of the prints?"

The man's expression didn't change. "If I thought there was a chance you'd get them all, I'd say yes. But I'm sure the five of you have been all over the inside of this car since you came to La Jolla. Besides, if we have to abandon it, it means the wrong people already know we've been in it." He turned to Bobby. "I'm sure this seems ridiculous. It won't if we come back to find the service center staked out. The plates and the other numbers on the car won't tell them anything, but the method they'll use to catch us is the one we didn't think of. A receipt with a time stamp may be all the starting point they need to trace a path to our door."

They set to, packing the rental's trunk with tents and sleeping bags. The rest of their gear went into the rear seat, leaving barely enough room for a passenger. Grumbling, Eddie went through the map pocket in the passenger door, collecting gum wrappers and old gas-station receipts. Bobby did the same on the driver's side while his dad looked over the rear seat and cargo area.

Eddie stood by the door with a tall stack of Styrofoam takeout boxes. "Dump all this, you think? Hate tossing good eats, but I don't know about bringing it home. Might give Anna the wrong idea."

Their last meal at the truck stop had been by turns pleasant and mildly uncomfortable. Even though the tables had all been crowded, and the warming shelf between kitchen and dining area lined with plates, the wait staff, all of whom Bobby and Eddie had met before, had each made a point of dropping by for a few words. Amilee had been working another section, but every time Bobby had glanced her way, her eyes and smile had been on him.

Mid-meal, Bobby had visited the restroom. As he'd been washing his hands, a guy at the next sink had said, "That guy with you, the one with the scar. He the owner?"

Bobby had looked in the mirror at his questioner. "Owner? You mean, the restaurant?"

"Yeah. The girls won't leave him alone."

He'd finished and reached for a paper towel. "No. This place just has great service."

"Buddy, I come in here three times a week, and I never saw service like _that_. Your pal hasn't been out of reach of a waitress since he sat down. They're taking turns hanging around him, like he might fire them all if he can't get somebody with a snap of his fingers. No," he amended, "not like that. More like they know he's gonna leave a fifty under his plate when he stands up. He takes more than two sips from his cup, one of them is there with the pot. When the girl brought him his plate, she stood at his shoulder waiting for him to take a bite before she moved on. That's not service. That's …" He'd searched for a word "Attendance. He's not a regular, so what's up?"

_Laurel and Cally and Amy have been talking, is my guess. _Bobby had said, "You don't watch much daytime TV, I bet. He's got a supporting role in one of the soaps."

"Ah." The man had nodded and left.

Just as his dad had asked for the check, Laurel had arrived, dressed in jeans and denim jacket, covered from neck to toes and just as beautiful as she'd been this morning wearing almost nothing. She'd come up behind his father, placed her hands on his shoulders, and bent to bring her cheek next to his. "Had my talk with Neal. He was waiting for me when I got home. It didn't go the way he expected." She touched her lips to his temple. "Gotta get ready."

Bobby had traded glances with Eddie, and again wondered what had really happened between those two last night.

The check had arrived with a stack of take-out boxes that hadn't been on the bill. The girl delivering them had looked at Eddie and said, unsmiling, "For the trip home. Cook says she wants to make sure you don't starve on the way."

Now, standing between the van and the nearly-loaded rental and regarding the boxes in his bunkie's hands, Bobby said, "Take them home, if you can find room. You tell her how you got them, she'll probably look them over for recipe ideas." He paused. "Rox, on the other hand…"

"Yeah." Eddie stuffed them into a bit of space in back. "But, frankly, I'm not caring about that right now."

Bobby was just about to call it a job. "Bro, you check under the seat?"

"Yeh. Found enough change to buy a Slurpee. _You _be sure to check between the seat and the center console."

He hadn't thought of that. Bobby stuck a hand down in the tight space and let it travel back and forth. His hand touched a piece of paper, and he pulled it out. His mouth went dry as he stared at the blank receipt with the truckstop's name and address across the top and Amilee's number written on the back. He stuffed it into a pocket of his jeans.

La Jolla

The precautions about the car had turned out to be unnecessary, and they'd picked it up after watching two movies back-to-back at a nearby theater. They'd reversed the transfer process, loading everything from the rental into the minivan, and Bobby's dad had turned it in at a lot in town, riding the rest of the way to the beach house in the back seat.

They paused in the driveway while the garage door rose. Bobby, still behind the wheel, traded glances with Eddie in the shotgun seat. _Showtime_.

But only Kat and Anna greeted them at the door. Kat looked like she'd rushed up from the basement: her hair was up in a tail, she was wearing a set of her skin-baring workout outfits, and her skin was gleaming with perspiration. She put her forearms around Bobby's neck, and he suddenly had a double armful of warm and pleasantly sweaty girl.

"Missed you." She put her lips to his ear. In a lower voice she said, "She's in the shower. We weren't expecting you so soon." She released him, and turned to his bunkie.

Bobby watched closely, but when Kat put her arms around the Grungester's shoulders, he didn't give up any of the expected misbehaviors – no eye rolls, no fake grope, not even a grin. Even with his chin resting lightly in the big redhead's cleavage, his expression was … almost solemn. He patted the bare skin between her shoulder blades like he was greeting a maiden aunt, and he was the first to let go. "Where's Rox?"

She flicked a glance over Eddie's shoulder to Bobby's dad. "Not sure. Welcome home, sir."

"Yes," Anna said. "Welcome home, everyone." Although she was smiling, her welcome was a lot more reserved than her send-off had been. Bobby guessed that his father's presence might have something to do with that. "Perhaps Roxanne is taking a nap. She's been a little out of sorts today." She fastened her eyes on Bobby. "Let me show you what we're doing for dinner tonight."

She led him, with Eddie following, down the hall to the kitchen. But they didn't stop there. Anna slid open the door leading onto the back patio and pool deck. A few steps away, a huge stainless-steel grill stood smoking on the concrete.

"It's just seasoning right now," she said. "A combination gas-charcoal model. I heard charcoal gives better flavor, if you have time to prepare the fire."

"This is great," Bobby said. "One of my faves, just as promised. But the last thing I expected when I got home was a cookout."

"Mr. Lynch told me you guys ate every meal at a restaurant down the road from the campsite. Really roughing it. I thought you shouldn't go through the entire weekend without something cooked over a fire." From a door under the grill, Anna produced a bag of briquettes and tore it open. "We'll start grilling in about twenty or thirty minutes. Sarah should be about done in the bathroom. Maybe if you tap on the door and tell her you're home, it might hurry her along so you boys can wash up. Eddie, I have steak, seafood, and hamburgers, plus a selection of sides."

"That reminds me, mama-droid. I brought you something."

Bobby's thoughts wandered. If his dad had talked to Anna, it must have been on the phone, either last night while he was alone at the campsite or today when he was driving the rental. He turned to ask, and realized his father hadn't followed them out. He went back into the house and looked around the ground floor: no one was in the kitchen or living room. His father must be downstairs in his office already, catching up on a weekend's worth of neglected work. Bobby went down the hallway toward the bathroom door. He reached it just as it opened to reveal Sarah tucking a towel around her. She nearly ran into him and started.

"You're back," she said, locking eyes.

"Just now." Her yard-long hair was gathered behind her, but just damp rather than soaked; she must have had it up for the shower somehow. She smelled of soap, and her bare shoulders were beaded with water. He could feel the warm moisture rising off her skin.

"Good." She fussed with the towel, loosening it and wrapping it again, which molded it more tightly to her body, showing every curve. She looked up at him again. "Pass by, please?"

He was blocking the way out of the bathroom, keeping her standing in the doorway in a damp towel. He stepped back. "Sorry."

"Don't be." She took a single step out the doorway, which put them as close as before. "I won't be long. Meet me by the pool, and you can tell me all about your trip." She walked past him to her bedroom door and passed inside; he couldn't take his eyes off her until the door shut behind her. Then he lifted his gaze and saw Kat at the living-room end of the hallway, watching.

He sighed and went back to the garage to unload. He sorted through the mostly-new items filling the vehicle. He'd have to ask Anna where to stow the camping gear, but he knew what to do with most of the other stuff. He gathered up the takeout boxes, intending to take them to the kitchen. He entered the hall just in time to see his father leaving Sarah's room.

John Lynch glanced up the hall and saw him, but only nodded as he approached Kat and Rox's door on the opposite side. He tapped at the panel. "Roxanne."

Bobby said, "I think she's taking a nap."

"I don't." He tapped again. Behind him, Sarah poked her head out the door to look at his father and spotted Bobby. She held up a cautionary palm and retreated back into her room. After a short wait, the master of the house started down the hallway towards the kitchen. Bobby waited a moment, then followed, boxes in hand. He arrived just in time to see Eddie enter the kitchen from the deck, closing the slider behind him.

"Dude. The L-man just chased me inside so he could talk to Anna. What's going on?"

Bobby set the boxes on the counter. He looked through the sliders: Anna stood puppy-eyed in front of her boss, hands clasped in the way she did when she was making a special effort to be persuasive. "Don't know. What-"

His father turned to the door and slid it open. "There was a little trouble at the house before we came home. Nothing serious, but it warrants some attention. I'll let her explain." He passed through the kitchen and turned down the hall, moving like a man on a mission.

At the grill, Anna said, "Nothing serious, just a boating mishap. A cabin cruiser ran aground just up the beach. Nobody got hurt or anything." She rubbed seasonings into the steak and fish as she talked, and watched a two-quart pot heating on a side burner. "Another boat towed it to the marina for repairs, and the police gave the boaters rides to the station to fill out forms or something. But we had a lot of strangers up and down the beach and tramping through the side yard. A couple of men from the Coast Guard even came to the door. I sent the girls into the basement while I answered questions. The last of them cleared out just before you got home. Eddie, could you help me out? Sarah says outdoor grilling is the only kind of cooking that men really like to do."

"Well," Eddie said, "we wouldn't want to challenge Sarah's expertise on guys. Or anything else."

The door slid open again. Sarah passed through and slid it shut behind her. "Feel free to challenge me any way you like, Eddie. Bobby, why don't we go to the other end of the pool?"

They settled into facing lounge chairs. Sarah wore a simple scoop-necked tank and jeans that looked painted on; he tried not to stare as she drew her knees up and crossed her legs on the chair. With the soft sound of the surf in his ears, he said, "Heard you had a little excitement earlier."

"A little. But what about you? How was your weekend with your father? You've got to tell me everything."

'_Nothing serious,' Sarah?_ But he doubted he'd get anything out of the Apache Princess she didn't volunteer; she had too much practice guarding her privacy. So he told the story of his weekend, beginning with the drive to the park. He skipped the bit about the gas station, intending to tell her the story of the Cheetos bandit separately. He described the meandering route and the sights along the way. Sarah listened with interest, putting in the occasional question or comment. But when he began to describe the park, she grew rapt. "It sounds beautiful. A little sparse, but beautiful."

"Yeah. Dad says it'll be even better in a couple weeks or so." At her nod, he said, "Remind you of home?"

"Yes," she said. "Very much." There was no mistaking the longing in her voice.

He worked his tongue around his mouth to wet it and swallowed. "Maybe we could go there. To the park, I mean."

"I know what you meant, Bobby," she said, her voice a degree cooler. "Tell me more."

He did. She smiled over Eddie's reaction to the park's warning sign. "We have pumas at home. But even with so many men out hunting, cat attacks are about as rare as lightning strikes. They tend to avoid people."

"Well, we never saw one. A girl I talked to hikes there all the time, and she said she's only seen one from a distance."

Her eyebrows rose. "A girl you talked to?"

He considered how much to tell her about the campers' Saturday night; after all, the girls had told him jack about _their_ weekend; he had a feeling they were hiding something. And he didn't want to give Sarah any more fuel for the fire she'd helped build under Eddie's feet. And after all, what had Eddie done but take riding lessons from a friend of Amy's? As for his dad and Laurel, he had no evidence they'd done anything but down a few at the campfire together. Nothing worth telling, really.

The feel of Amilee's arms around his shoulders came back to him, as did the feel of her lips moving against his neck. But, seated across from Sarah, the memory twisted, and he imagined sharing that blanket with the girl facing him instead. "Yeah. A girl I met at a restaurant." He described the truckstop and its staff as he'd found them on his first visit. He said that their waitress had stopped by the campsite after work, omitting Amy's first visit from the story, and was just started on the description of the walk up the hill to see the sunset. He stopped cold at Sarah's titter.

"'Watch the sunset?' You fell for that?" She _grinned_. "Or maybe you just wanted to?" She shook her head. "_Really_, Bobby. Some brazen bleach-blonde from a legs-and-eggs truckstop? That doesn't seem your style at all." Her smile froze as she looked at his face.

He said slowly, "I don't know what you think you know about girls who wait tables at truck stops, but Amilee is good people. She's smart and sensitive, and I liked her attitude. She was good company."

For a few moments, the sound of the sea and the murmur of conversation between Anna and Eddie at the grill were the only sounds. "You're right," Sarah said quietly, staring out over the water. "It's wrong to make assumptions about people, especially hurtful ones." She brightened. "So, how did you get along with your father?"

-0-

"Great dinner," Bobby said as he brought disposable plates and utensils through the sliding door. He dropped the soiled items into the kitchen can. "Thanks, Anna."

Anna, standing at the sink, scrubbed at the fancy barbecue tools she'd dirtied. "You're very welcome. And thank you, for helping clean up."

"Don't want you to feel taken for granted. You might start looking for a new job."

She smiled at the sink. "I get plenty of job satisfaction, Bobby. I'm not going anywhere."

The food _had_ been good, but dining had been a quiet business. Everyone had eaten sitting in deck chairs arranged in a circle by the pool, their plates on side tables by their chairs or in their laps. All through the meal, Bobby had studied his housemates, trying to gauge their moods. Conversation had been limited to comments about the food. Eddie had cleaned his plate, but not with his usual gusto, and hadn't reloaded, most unusual; he'd sort of acted as if he wasn't sure he wanted to be here. Dessert had been chocolate fudge cake, Eddie's favorite, but he'd eaten his portion as if it was a job. Bobby figured the big lug was still uncertain where he stood with Rox.

Roxanne was even stranger. She was quiet, and wouldn't look at Eddie for more than a second, as if afraid to meet his eyes. She'd mostly stared at her plate, picking at her meal. When she'd glanced up and seen Bobby's eyes on her, she'd colored and dropped her chin again. At first, Bobby had figured she was regretting the way she'd gone off on them Friday, but then he'd noticed that Kat and Sarah were watching Eddie, too, and watching his dad as well. Something else was going on.

The girls had scattered as soon as the meal was over. His father had watched them go, then left as well. Eddie had shrugged at him and gone for a walk down the beach. Bobby and Anna had the kitchen and pool to themselves.

Bobby leaned over the little cyber. "Anna, can you tell me-"

John Lynch appeared at the kitchen door. He'd changed out of his camping clothes and was back in black. "I'm going out. I'm not sure when I'll be back."

Anna turned from the sink to look at him. "Sometime tonight, sir?"

"Probably. I'm looking for someone, and I'm not sure how easy he'll be to find."

She said quietly, "Be careful, sir."

He turned away without giving a reply and disappeared down the hall.

Bobby said, "Nothing serious, right. Would it do me any good to ask?"

The little cyber turned back to the sink. "Maybe, if you ask the right person. I don't advise it." From the garage came the sound of a door rising. "Your father will handle it, Bobby. And I'm sure all the details will come out before long. Let it happen in its own time."

Bobby decided not to push it. He had his own secret to deal with, after all. He'd sort of promised Amy he'd share it, but he wasn't sure this was a good time. then again, when would be?

He went back out to the pool. The deck was all cleaned up, with just a faint scent of cooking lingering in the air. He looked up and down the beach, but Eddie was nowhere in sight.

His cell phone rang. He checked the number: Melanie. "Hey, Mel."

"_Hey, yourself. Were you coming to practice tonight? We've got a gig Friday, you know._"

"Um, sorry. Kinda slipped my mind. I've been out of town, just got back."

"_So you missed all the excitement. Lucky you._"

"Yeah." He stepped to the edge of the deck, standing on the top step that led down to the beach. "Things have been pretty hectic since I got back. The girls haven't brought me up to speed, really. But they told me about the boating accident."

"_Boating accident?_"

"Yeah. The cabin cruiser that ran aground up the beach."

"_Good grief. I hadn't heard about that. I was talking about Saturday night._"

He remembered that Kat and Rox and Melanie had been supposed to go out to a dance club. "Oh. Well, like I said, I haven't been home long. I know something happened last night, too, but I don't have any details."

"_I don't have all that many either. Kat called me this morning to tell me Roxy made it home all right, but she didn't say much else. I got the impression she was royally pissed. Who could blame her, really? I know her little sister's a free spirit and all, but you don't just ditch the people you come to a party with like that. Course, getting pawed by Gary Benson might have had something to do with it, too._"

He blinked. "Wait. You weren't with them? I thought the three of you went clubbing."

"_They really didn't bring you up to speed, did they? The three of us plus Lori and Joel went to a frat party – not the kind with kegs in the living room, the kind you need an evening gown for. I spent most of the night flirting with the old geezers who run the fraternity, and picked up a few new gigs for the band. Meanwhile, Lori picked up a boyfriend, we got a new band member, Kat got molested, and Roxy disappeared._"

"Kat in an evening gown? How could she _not _get molested?" He thought about Melanie's revelations, weighing them against the girls' odd behavior, and decided that the event to focus on was Rox's disappearance. Where had she gone, and what had happened? "I knew about half of that," he lied, "but I got it all in bits and pieces. You say Lori found a boyfriend?" Best to make his first interest seem like his last, he thought.

"_Tall, dark, and handsome, as the saying goes. Named Reginald, if you can believe it. What an odd couple. But it was, like, love at first sight._" Her tone turned teasing. "_So, you've got a house on the beach, huh? Stylin. Ever going to invite me over?_"

"Love to, but my dad is totally paranoid about guests. I'm not even supposed to give out the address. Sorry."

A pause. "_This thing with the caller ID, it's not a glitch, is it?_" Before he could think of a reply, she said, "_Bobby, is your dad… all right?_"

He smiled into the phone. "Yeah, he's all right. But his job takes him to some rough places, and the work he does kind of pisses off some nasty people. He's just cautious, is all. I have to respect that. What's this about a new band member? Lori's boyfriend plays?"

"_No. A musical prodigy named Kimberly Perlman._"

"You don't sound too pleased to get her."

"_And you don't sound like you recognize her name. Well, we'll see how she works out. Anyway. I wasn't calling to rag you about making practice, really. I just wanted to talk to you. Kat told me you went camping with Eddie and your dad._"

"Yeah. It was kind of spur-of-the-moment."

"_Fun?_"

"Somewhat. I'd do it again."

"_Wouldn't have figured you for a back-to-nature type._"

"Not, really." he smiled into the phone. "I'm just the type who enjoys simple pleasures." He launched into another description of the park without mentioning Amy and her girlfriends. "Had some car trouble on the way home. Nothing serious, but I guess it's good we headed home early." He shook his head when he realized he'd just repeated Dad's and Anna's reassurance. "So what happened to Rox?"

"_I thought you might tell me. She disappeared a couple hours after we got there. She called, I guess just to let Kat know she was safe. I wasn't with them then, I was still schmoozing the Trustees. I met up with them just in time for Kat to get Rox's second call. Then Kat told me she had to leave, no explanation. Lori and Joel and I bummed a ride home with Reggie. It was cute watching him say goodnight to Lor in my driveway. High-school stuff. Anyway, that's all I know, except that she showed up home around midnight._"

He heard the patio doors sliding aside, and turned. Kat stepped through, looking dressed for the pool – at least, she was carrying a towel and had her hair up. She wore a huge pink sweatshirt, short-sleeved but long enough to cover her butt; her legs were bare except for a pair of flip-flops. She saw him on the phone and hesitated.

"Mel," he said, "I gotta go."

"_Come over tomorrow. We're going to do a second practice on Mondays from now on._"

"Our new band member going to be there?"

"_Don't think so. Weekdays aren't good for her._"

_Then why start practicing on Mondays?_ He decided to let it lie for now; he had more pressing matters. "Okay. Monday then. See you in school." He disconnected.

Kat dropped her towel on the back of a lounger and said, "I didn't want to start splashing around while you were on the phone. You didn't hang up for me, did you?" Her ponytail swung around to rest its tip on her shoulder, and she brushed it away absently.

"No. I kind of wanted to talk to you." Back at Darwin, before her transformation, Kat had worn her hair up like this all the time. For an instant, he saw her as she'd been then, looking up at him through her thick glasses with a wide kid-sister smile. She'd always been a good listener, somebody you could talk about anything with, somebody you could trust with a secret.

Kat said, "Have I got something on my face? What are you staring at?"

"That sweatshirt. It's the same as the one you brought with you at Darwin, the one you used to wear after school."

"Not quite. I'm sure this one has at least another yard of material." She crossed her wrists at the front of her hem.

He added, "Mel said you had some trouble last night."

She let go of the garment and dropped her hands. "A little."

"I'm not asking about what Rox did. I think there might be a reason not to talk about that yet." When she seemed to relax a bit, he said, "But what happened to you last night?"

"Nothing serious," she said, and Bobby felt his molars compress. Then she said, "Some guy I met at the party sort of cornered me and got a little aggressive. That's it, really."

"You use Gen or Dad kwon do?"

"Neither. Lori and Joel broke us up." The corner of her mouth quirked. "Lori used a stun gun on him."

"No," he said, grinning, and suddenly feeling much better; talking with Kat was always like that.

"Yes. We left him on elbows and knees with his rump sticking up in the air, kind of sounding like a puppy in a box." They smiled into each other's eyes until she said, "That's not what you wanted to talk about."

"Not really." He eyed the patio doors, then turned back toward the steps leading to the beach. "Do you mind if we walk? I think it'll be easier, and besides, I'd rather keep this between us."

-0-

Roxanne sat at the foot of her bed with her hands clasped between her knees, willing her stomach to settle down. She supposed the queasy feeling might be the last traces of her epic hangover rebelling against the tiny portion of solid food she'd put in her belly at dinner, but she didn't think so. More likely, it was from thinking about what she needed to do next.

Kat had just left. When she'd come in and found her, she'd said quietly, "You okay?"

Roxy had hung her head. "I just wish this weekend was over. Actually, I wish this weekend had never happened."

The big redhead had plunked her butt down on the mattress next to her, creating a valley that pushed them together. Kat had put an arm around her. "I was headed for the pool. Throw on a suit and come out with me. I won't do laps, we can just paddle around and soak."

Roxy had just shaken her head.

"You haven't traded three words with him yet, have you?"

"Sis, we haven't spoken a _word_." Her hands had clenched and unclenched.

"He doesn't seem angry."

"No. But he's not acting right. Not at all." She shifted. "Go for your swim, Sis. I'm gonna stay here awhile."

Kat had changed into her modest two-piece and toed a pair of flip-flops out of their shared closet. "Sure?"

"Yeah. Just let me mope."

"You're not moping. You're hiding again."

Alone once more, she sat a while longer, gathering her courage. When she was just about to stand, she heard the doorknob turn, and Sarah slipped inside.

Roxanne eyed her. "Come to talk me out of it?"

"No. I'm sure it's useless. Cigarettes aren't your only unhealthy addiction, I'm afraid." The Apache Princess sighed. "Just don't start apologizing. You didn't do anything wrong, Roxanne."

"No." _But scrambling for the moral high ground is a battle that's not worth the casualties. And the view from the top sucks._ Roxy thought of Sarah's words the day the boat boys had made their first appearance. "I was just way too close to doing something impulsive and selfish."

Sarah bridled. "And how would giving in to that _goshe_ been selfish?"

"Cuz while I was letting that jerk paw me, I was thinking about all the girls my boyfriend _might_ have done behind my back. And jealousy is about the most selfish feeling there is."

Sarah sat beside her, as Kat had done, and put an arm around her; with her other hand, she stroked Roxy's hair. "You were drunk. Forgive yourself, will you?"

"It's not excuse enough." Roxanne didn't waste a moment pondering the motives behind the Apache Princess's unaccustomed tenderness; she simply leaned into Sarah's shoulder. "It isn't that he won't look at me. He's not giving me the cold shoulder. He's looking right _through_ me, like…."

Beside her, Sarah stilled. "Like you don't matter anymore."

-0-

Sarah left Roxanne in her room still gathering the courage to speak with her boyfriend – if that was what he was or had ever been. The Apache girl was of two minds about the strained relationship. While Sarah was certain her little friend could do better for herself, she really was stuck on the big gorilla, and getting dumped by him might crush her. And what kind of separation could they have if they were still forced to share a roof? Reluctantly, she decided that, for now at least, it might be best if Roxanne and Eddie stayed together.

But she had a suspicion that there was more to Eddie's cool behavior than anger over his weekend exile. Either he'd learned of Roxanne's little misadventure and misinterpreted it, or something had happened while the boys were camping. And, after talking to Bobby, she had a good idea what that 'something' had been. She doubted there were any condoms left in Eddie's wallet now. She intended to find out from Bobby exactly what Eddie had been up to.

She tapped at Bobby's door: no answer. It seemed likely he was in the kitchen with Anna, and it was on the way to the living room anyway. She put her head in the doorway and saw, through the sliders, Anna standing at the top of the beach steps, staring out at the sea.

_Another invasion?_ Quickly she passed through the kitchen and onto the deck. Once there, she saw that the little robot wasn't looking out over the water, but southward, down the beach. Sarah rounded the pool for a better look.

A hundred yards down the beach, Bobby and Caitlin were walking, close enough to brush elbows at every step. They seemed to be talking. Their pace was leisurely, a step every second or two; they paused often to face each other with the sea licking at their feet. Clearly they were down there for company rather than exercise. _And privacy?_

They started walking again. Caitlin's hand brushed Bobby's, and he clasped it.

Sarah swallowed. What on earth was going on around here? She reminded herself that Bobby and Caitlin had always been extra close, but only as friends. They'd been separated for a while and were catching up, that was all.

_At Darwin, Caitlin and I were like sisters. Relationships change. _She glanced at the little android staring intently at the strolling pair. Realization struck. She said, "You can hear them, can't you?"

Anna's eyes never wavered. "Yes."

_But you're not going to tell me, are you?_ She looked back down the beach at the … _couple?_ Certainly any stranger watching them would think so. Sarah had always suspected the big redhead – even when she'd been a _little_ redhead - had had feelings for Bobby that went a bit south of friendship, but Bobby had always treated her like a sister, and she'd never had the nerve to make the first move, either before her transformation or…

Caitlin suddenly seized her companion, wrapping her arms around him and putting a hand to the back of his head to draw their faces together; after half a second, Bobby circled her in his arms as well, and they stood like that as the seconds ticked by with the tide foaming around their ankles. Sarah couldn't see, from this distance and angle, but she was sure they were kissing.

She heard a soft sigh behind her. It was Anna, still standing at the top of the stairs. Only then did Sarah realize that she'd taken several steps down the deck towards the pair on the beach.

"It's not what you're thinking." Anna turned toward the house. "Not that I really know what you're thinking."

-0-

"Sorry," Kat said into Bobby's ear. "I just had to. I'd let go if I could, but… oh, God, Bobby."

Bobby's palm rubbed the soft fabric over her shoulder blade. "Could you loosen the grip a little, then? It's kind of hard to breathe."

"Oh. Sorry." She relaxed somewhat, but still kept his head firmly pressed into her shoulder. She took a deep breath and shakily let it out. "What happened to them?"

"The Grants? Jail, till the youngest of us comes of age, at least."

"And the other kids?"

"Different institutions. Some of them are probably fostered out, but I'm not sure. We were sort of discouraged from keeping in touch. Not that we would."

"Those last few days at the Complex… must have brought back some memories."

"Some. But the real shock was when the door swung open." He pressed the back of his head against her hand until she relaxed it enough for him to pull his head back to look into her eyes. Kat had always had the most fascinating eyes, he thought. They were dappled with spots of lighter green that changed their color just a little with her moods, like Rox's. And, in their depths, tiny flecks of dark amber like slivers of copper that almost matched her hair, flecks that he hadn't seen since she'd quit wearing glasses. He'd seldom been this close to her. They'd occasionally touched foreheads in study hall at the complex; once, after he'd aced a killer exam with her coaching, he'd picked her up and carried her down the hall, both of them whooping, and given her a quick kiss. But they'd never spent a moment in each other's arms. Bobby smiled, thinking that, if one of Mr. Ricci's hired boys was watching, he must be sure they were making out.

"What are you _smiling_ about?"

"Just thinking about when you still wore glasses. You ever grabbed me like this back then, you'd have had to stand on a box to whisper in my ear." When she smiled back, he said, "I know some of the other kids had a real hard time after the Grants were arrested. I had a regular appointment with a shrink the first couple months. She seemed really disturbed at how well I was taking it all. Foster mom got a little nervous when she was fixing dinner and I came into the kitchen. All those sharp knives, you know? Everybody was waiting for me to snap.

"The thing is, by the time the State gave me to the Grants, I'd already been through so much crap it wasn't such a big deal. Don't squeeze me again, Kat, jeez. I just mean, I'd had a chance to toughen up first, so it wasn't as big a shock to me as it was for some of the others. Just another turn of the screw, kind of. That's why I didn't need therapy and drugs and a support group." He touched his lips to hers for just a moment. "A friend like you's all the therapy I need. Let's head back. I feel like another helping of that fudge cake."

-0-

Roxanne paused at the kitchen door, half expecting Grunge to be feeding at the table again an hour after dinner. Instead, she found Bobby and Kat eating gooey chocolate cake off the same plate and gazing at each other in a way that was kind of disturbing, mostly because the gazers were Bobby and Kat. They looked up as she said, "Uh, seen Grunge?"

"Took a walk," Bobby said, using his fork to point through the slider toward the northern leg of the beach.

She went out back. Standing at the top of the beach steps, she looked north up the beach to the rocky spur that walled it off from the public beaches beyond: no Grunge. She looked the other way, toward the Riccis' fence. He was nowhere in sight. He might have climbed over the rocks, she thought, to hit on one of the bikini-clad coeds from MacArthur or USC who infested the strip of sand there. Or maybe he'd walked around front to the sidewalk, to stroll along the housefronts or even catch a bus. She was debating whether to just head back into the house and wait when she spotted tracks, a solitary trail in the firm flat sand just above the waterline, headed toward the rocks.

She went down the steps and followed. The shoes that had made the prints were large and deep-treaded and looked like his favorite kicks. The westering sun threw them into deep relief, making them visible a long way down the beach; they were still headed straight for the rockwall. If he'd climbed over and was mingling, she decided, she'd turn back for the house. The discussion she had in mind was nothing to have in front of strangers.

A breeze came in off the water, making her wish she'd brought a coat. It was still pretty warm, but the temp sometimes dropped quickly out here when the sun went down, at least this time of year. She wondered what summer here would be like. Then she thought about spending the next two or three months sharing this house with Eddie in his present strange mood, and shivered.

She was clambering up among the rocks and feeling very shaky before she saw him. He was sitting on a stool-sized stone in a small sand-floored depression, gazing out to sea with his forearms on his thighs. He looked very much like he'd come here to be alone.

He glanced down at her. "Hey, Rox." His eyes returned to the horizon.

She took a breath, gathered her strength and her nerve, and finished her climb to join him. Standing behind him, she said, "Did you come to watch the sunset?"

"Not really. Just thinking. You sound a little winded."

She deliberately slowed her breathing. "I, uh, it's a tougher climb than I remembered." _Still weak from the alcohol poisoning, I guess. Am I up to this?_

"Surprised you didn't just float up." Still that detached tone, as if it didn't really matter if she answered or not. Like someone making small talk with a stranger on a bus.

"Be just my luck a spy satellite would be looking at me."

"Or somebody on a boat with binocs."

She froze. _He knows? No. Just talk. _"Yeah." She didn't know what else to say, didn't know how to start or where the conversation needed to go. She was afraid to ask him about his weekend, because reminding him of the fight Friday seemed a really bad way to start off.

_And what if he asks me how I spent my weekend? How could I begin to explain without him thinking that I …_

He said, "I met a girl last night."

Everything stopped. Even the sound of the waves coming in seemed to pause for a moment before resuming.

He went on, "She's the exact opposite of you, every way I can think of. But I liked her."

She found her voice somehow, though it didn't sound right. She said to the back of his head, "Is that why you liked her?"

"No. Not at all. But it surprised me. That's when I realized." He shook his head a little, eyes still on the sea. "Since I met you, I compare every girl I meet to you. And usually, the more she reminds me of you, the better I like her."

A sharp retort rose up: _then why do you keep looking around?_ But fear pushed it back down before it reached her lips. Not only because she was trying to avoid a fight; she had a feeling she wouldn't really like an honest answer. Instead she said, "Are you going to see her again?"

"Don't think so," he said, which she didn't find encouraging at all.

They stayed that way, him sitting on his rock staring out to sea, her standing in the sand a step behind, neither of them talking. Then, not really intending to, she moved closer until her knees were almost touching his back. "Last night ... I met a guy." She looked down at his wide shoulders and imagined them under her hands. "I told him he was nothing like you. It sounded right, but I only said it because he was charming." She rested a hand, feather-light, on his shoulder. "Later, I realized it was really true, but not until I stopped liking him." She held her breath and waited: For a show of jealousy or anger, for the questions that might end the two of them forever, or just for him to spurn her hand by getting up or brushing it off.

One of his big hands rose up to cover hers. "Not going to see him again, then?"

Her heart leaped. "I'd better not, or he'll be sorry." She slid her other hand around his neck.

He said, "Think this weekend changed either of us?"

"I think maybe it changed us both, a little at least," she said, resting her chin on his head. "But as long as we still recognize each other, I guess it's okay."

-0-

Bobby was sitting on the couch in the living room, at peace with the world. _Vertigo_ was nearing its terrific conclusion on the TV in front of him, and a beautiful girl was curled up against him, her drawn-up knees resting on his thigh and one hand positioned almost possessively on his shoulder. He smiled to himself. _If this is the homecoming I can expect, I ought to leave the house for a weekend more often._

Sarah turned her head away from the screen, drawing her hair along his neck like a silk scarf. "Did you hear something?"

With his attention pulled away from his immediate surroundings, he could hear a humming rumble. "Garage door. Dad must be home."

The movie ended. Sarah stretched, still up against him, raising goosebumps on his arms. "Too bad," she said. "She should have told him the truth sooner." She swung her feet off the couch and stood. "I think I'm ready for bed, how about you?"

With an effort, he took a breath. "Yeah. Been a long weekend."

She took his hand to tug him off the couch. "Well, come on, then." As his glutes tightened, she said, "I'll walk you to your door." She hung on to his hand as they left the room and turned down the hallway. "You know, Bobby, I-"

They both stopped. Anna was kneeling at the door into the garage, wiping a red smear off the casing three inches off the floor. "Not his," she said, turning the damp cloth. "But I wouldn't ask, if I were you."

32


	19. Can't Live With Them

Monday April 5 2004  
MacArthur University San Diego

"Check _this_ out, dawgs." One of the three boys shooting the breeze between classes at the edge of the quad glanced at the time display on his cell phone. "One minute, tops, something very sweet is coming out that door." He nodded at one of several doorways facing the grassy inner courtyard of MacArthur's oldest structure.

"Who?" One of the boy's two companions asked.

"Wait and see."

"Bullshit."

"Wait and see."

"And you know this how? Been stalking, Mark?"

"Hell, no. It's not stalking if they come to you, right?" He wiggled his eyebrows. "Spotted her walking this way last week. Just a little luck – and a copy of her class schedule." The big door swung open. "Ta-dah."

"Damn," said the third boy as a tall busty redhead stepped out the door, nicely packaged in stretchy jeans and a gray cardigan open over a white button-front collared shirt: 'Fantasy' Fairchild. His eyes went dry as the girl hugged her laptop bag to her chest, pushing up her breasts to strain against the top two buttons of her shirt, and strode towards them down a path that passed within twenty feet of their position at the midpoint of her traverse. The quad was fifty yards square, but the girl was tall and long-legged and walking with purpose; she was at closest approach in seconds. Against custom, they stared openly as she walked past, actually leaning towards her as she went by, like blades of grass tracking the sun. The boy who'd spoken last, his gaze swinging back and forth in time with her stride, went on, "I'd drink her bathwater, I'm not joking."

"I'd eat her _washcloth_," said the third. "What a waste."

"Yeah," said Mark. "Heading for the door like she's on tracks. She isn't even trying to catch us looking."

"So?"

"So, girls learn to catch guys staring at them as soon as they've got tits. It's all part of the game. Only, she doesn't bother to play. She already knows every guy in sight is watching her, and she's making sure we know she doesn't care."

"Stuck-up bitch," the washcloth-eater said as 'Fantasy' pushed through the opposite door. "But I'd still do her."

-0-

When the door closed behind her, Caitlin let out the breath she'd been holding all the way across the quad. She hated when guys stared at her, and she'd felt the eyes of half a dozen of them as soon as she'd stepped into the courtyard. She knew it was irrational to feel so threatened, but she just couldn't help it; when a strange man looked at her with appraising eyes, she felt as if she was doing something wrong and dirty just being there. And, after the events of the past weekend, she was feeling especially sensitive to male attention. She'd stared straight ahead, avoiding eye contact, and forced herself to walk the width of the quad to the Science Building instead of ducking back inside and going the long way around – or, worse, making a dash for it across the courtyard. She had the strangest notion that, if she'd panicked halfway across the grass and actually broken into a run, every boy on the quad would have given chase, like a pack of hounds after a fox.

She sighed again, put on a calm expression, and headed for class. At least the next hour should go easy. She'd be spending it within touching distance of a guy, but Joel was a guy you could feel safe with.

-0-

"Whoa. Bonus." Mark cast eyes at the same entrance as before. A little beauty stood in the opening, glancing around as if looking for someone. Her neck-length black hair was streaked with purple in two wide ribbons that framed her face and accented her eyes, so big you could see the color even from this distance, a light clear violet. She wore a mid-thigh skirt and thick-soled wedges that showed her legs off very nicely, and a black leather biker jacket that, rather than making her look tough, showcased her small size and femininity. She let the door close behind her and started their way.

Bathwater Drinker said, "Hey. That's-"

"Yup."

The girl glided down the same path the redhead had taken; unlike the redhead, she took her time, slowing and lengthening her stride to put a little something extra into the rock of her hips as she stepped along. She looked everywhere but at her knot of admirers, not explicitly acknowledging the boys' scrutiny but clearly aware of it. Mark nodded to himself: this girl knew how to play the game. The boys played too, pretending not to notice, stealing quick but frequent glances instead of staring openly. She passed by, drawing their eyes in her wake. After a few steps, she flicked an eye over her shoulder, catching them all staring at her ass. _Three points to Roxanne Spaulding_, Mark thought. Looking back again, she sashayed to the same door "Fantasy' had used and passed through, leaving the boys smiling at each other in shared enjoyment.

"Dang," said Bathwater Drinker. "Did you see her _eyes_?"

"Yeh," Washrag Eater said. "For a couple seconds or so. Good thing she only had em set on 'stun'."

"Hard to believe two chicks so different could be sisters."

Mark smirked. "Dawg, you never dated sisters."

-0-

Roxanne smiled to herself as she continued down the empty hallway. After this weekend, she hadn't been sure if she could enjoy a boy's eyes on her ever again. But the three in the quad had been gentlemen: they'd played by the rules and given her respect. They'd shown their appreciation of her looks and style and had made their interest clear while avoiding any hint of aggression, taking her little strut for what it was - a performance, not an invitation. The hunger she'd caught on their faces as she'd passed by had been better than applause. They'd made her feel like she was special and desirable, not some stupid skank with no sense of self-worth who'd let a guy she'd just met at a party take her home for a night of drunken sex; she wasn't that girl. Her three admirers had been just what her ego needed to clear away the last wisps of uncertainty about herself that she'd felt since Sunday.

She sighed softly. Boys could be so wonderful when they knew how to treat a girl.

-0-

"Kay." Caitlin looked over the top of her laptop at her companion. "I get sixteen point five six for a final result."

"The same," Joel said, studying his own screen. "Sixteen point five six four, actually."

They were seated on opposite sides of a small table tucked into an out-of-the-way corner of the Science Building. MacArthur's older buildings had quite a few such random niches, architectural oddities resulting from additions and remodeling over the years. Joel, a man who liked peace and privacy while he worked, knew them all, and shared freely with his redheaded partner whenever he got the chance; Kat liked solitude when she worked too.

She said, "You really think our margin's tight enough for three points' accuracy?"

He began setting up the formulae for the next data set. "Maybe. If not, we can throw it out later. Suits?"

"Suits. Joel, do you think I'm pretty?"

"You kidding, you're a goddess," he said absently, intent on the next set of figures. Then his brain caught up with his mouth and he lifted his eyes above the display. Kat was studying her work so intently that, for a moment, he wondered if she'd really asked the question. But she didn't lift her gaze to meet his stare, a dead giveaway. "This is one of those female trap-questions, isn't it?"

She kept her eyes on her screen, but the corners of her mouth quirked. "Maybe if I was Alex." She met his eyes. "I was just curious."

"Curious."

"You treat me so different from other guys. I'm just trying to figure you out."

He frowned. "Honest answer? No girl games?"

She nodded solemnly.

"You remember that first day in lab together?"

The little smile came back for a moment. "I'm not sure, it was so long ago."

_Has it really been just a couple of weeks?_ "I told you that girls like you aren't supposed to be smart."

"Uh huh. That's when I started thinking about working alone."

He dismissed her statement with a roll of his head. "I never liked pretty girls. No, that's not right. I mean, I'm a normal male and everything. Looks matter, but I just never had any respect for girls who thought looks were too important. And I just thought a girl with your looks would have to be in love with the mirror, you know?" Joel searched for the proper expression. "One of those girls who…" He trailed off, wondering whether he was treading on firm ground.

"You have no use for girls who'd rather be pretty than smart." She dropped her eyes back down to the laptop display.

"Ex_act_ly." Joel nodded gratefully. "I see a hottie, I still _want_ her … but that doesn't mean I have to _like_ her."

"Hm. But you like me, right? Even though I'm a 'hottie'." She grinned down at the display. "So, you want me, then?"

He mock-glowered. "You said no girl games."

"Sorry. It just slipped out. I had no idea it would be so easy. Guess it's hardwired in after all."

"You start acting like one of those hormonal half-bright bimbos, _I'm_ going to start calling you 'Fantasy'."

She snorted. "'Fantasy'? Where did you come up with _that_?"

He blinked. "Ah…" _She doesn't know?_ Suddenly the niche seemed a lot smaller.

She focused on him. A line appeared between the ginger eyebrows. "What?"

"That's what everybody calls you. It's your nickname, sort of. 'Fantasy' Fairchild." He waited for a reaction, not knowing what to expect and ready to apologize, though he wasn't sure what for.

"'Fantasy'." She considered a moment, then huffed softly. "Perfect, really. A fantasy's an illusion, right? Just something somebody wants that isn't real." She dropped her eyes again. "I get eighteen point zero one six for the next solution. You?"

-0-

Between classes, Sarah was standing in the corridor with a hand on her open locker door, chatting – flirting, actually - with Cynthia Heiman, a freshman in her Lit Hist class who'd been showing an interest. "No," Sarah said, "last names like 'Rainmaker' are pretty common where I come from. Nobody's ever given me a hard time over it."

"Lucky you." The girl, a couple inches shorter than Sarah, grinned up at her. "I've been getting shit jokes over mine since junior high."

Although Sarah liked the older girl, she was a bit reluctant to take the relationship past friendship. In the first place, Sarah was sure Cyn was more ambivalent about her sexual orientation than she claimed. Like Sarah, she'd started with boys, but Sarah didn't believe Cyn had really put them behind her. Sarah classed her as 'curious' rather than gay, prepared to experiment while she was on her own far from home, but likely to return to a conventional hetero life when she was back among family and old friends. Sarah had met a few such girls already at MacArthur – and before that, at Darwin – and didn't usually find them to her taste. But Cynthia was bright and funny and cute, and willing to let Sarah take the lead role in their relationship, which Sarah preferred; although Cyn was three years her senior, Sarah was ahead of her in school, and Cyn thought was older. And Cynthia had a _lovely_ mouth…

Thinking of kissing Cynthia brought to mind another kiss: the one she'd witnessed the day before, between Bobby and Caitlin. What was going on with those two? She was sure it wasn't romance – fairly sure, anyway – but some kind of emotional intimacy had passed between them, some secret or shared experience that had demanded an extraordinary gesture from the normally- reserved redhead.

Sarah had stayed close to Bobby that night, but he'd made no mention of what had been on his mind that afternoon, and offered no clues. Sarah wondered if telling Caitlin had purged it from his system, or if it was simply something he didn't want to share with her.

She wondered why that notion bothered her. Wasn't he entitled to his privacy, and to withhold personal secrets from whomever he wanted?

Should she bring the subject up with Caitlin, then? Sarah thought she should at least mention that the two of them had been seen, in case Anna told someone. But when would they have a chance to speak privately? They didn't share a lunch on Monday, and Caitlin spent her free periods with her lab partner Joel whenever they coincided. Sarah didn't want to do it at home; you never knew who might be listening. The big redhead would be at the pool today, a water polo scrimmage or something, and had driven separately; if Sarah stayed to watch, maybe they could talk on the trip home.

Cynthia, who'd been chattering away about the local bar scene, suddenly fell silent. Sarah thought the girl had noticed her moment of inattention until she realized Cyn was looking over Sarah's shoulder. "Creeps."

Sarah turned casually and saw two male students passing by, watching her and Cyn with knowing eyes. They took up station in a nearby doorway, arms folded, backs against the wall on either side: at ease but not casual, and they were still looking this way. Sarah said, "You know them?"

"I've had run-ins with them. Look at them staring at us. You can see the damned porn flick playing behind their eyes."

Sarah raised an eyebrow at the girl. "Ah, but do they want us, or do they just want to watch?"

The girl hid a smile behind her hand. "It's not funny. I bet they think if they could get in our pants just once, we'd swear off girls forever."

"That's not uncommon. The attitude, I mean." Sarah studied the two boys: Gym-rat types, solid and muscular and dressed to show off all that hard work in the weight room. Was it coincidence that they were standing in front of the door to Cyn and Sarah's next class, a class they didn't attend? She doubted it. "But I don't think that's what they're after. Not at all."

Sarah believed that nearly all male-female relationships contained a readily discernable amount of lust mixed with at least a little hostility. But the proportions were usually reversed between straight men and lesbians. Sarah suspected that 'normal' men regarded a woman who interested other women as a challenge to their macho sensibilities. Whatever the reason, men's antagonism towards gay women too often went beyond gossip and cutting remarks. She looked again at the two door guards; to her, they appeared ready for a little fun with the new sappho in school.

But Sarah Rainmaker was long past being intimidated by ordinary men. She cooled her resentment, closed her locker door and turned toward the classroom entrance. "Stay a few steps behind me."

She walked briskly down the hall towards the classroom. The door guardians watched her approach, and their interest sharpened. A silent signal passed between the boys, and they casually drew closer together until only six or eight inches of space remained between them, effectively blocking the doorway. She smiled inwardly. _So predictable. _If they'd stood actually touching shoulders, they'd have been much more difficult to manage, but straight males would encroach only so far on each other's personal space. Mutual defense was an exception to that rule, but they couldn't let this little scene look like a real contest; that would spoil their fun.

At three or four steps' distance, she slowed and eyed the human barricade, seeming to hesitate. Next, according to the script in the boys' heads, she might demand they let her by, which would cue some clever remarks they were waiting to drop along with other verbal harassment. Or she might try to push past, a bluff they'd call by standing their ground, certain she'd stop short of touching _– because everyone knows lesbians are secretly afraid of men_, she thought. After a moment, she'd surrender, either by asking their permission to pass or by some other acknowledgement of their power over her by virtue of sheer size and strength. She took another careful step, letting events unfold according to their plan until she was close enough to strike. She smiled suddenly, and gave them just enough time for surprise before she moved.

She quickly turned sideways and wedged herself between the two boys … without trying to squeeze past. In reflex, the one behind her tried to step back but immediately bumped up against the door jamb. She stepped back too, pressing her backside against him, and he stopped as if pinned. The door guard in front of her froze as she slipped four fingers into his waistband. In a husky voice she said, "Are you boys lost?"

She heard their breathing roughen, and smiled again. She cocked a hip, grinding a buttock against the crotch of the boy behind her, and felt his helpless involuntary response. She brushed her breast across the bicep and pectoral of the boy in front of her, and felt the material in her fingers stretch in the same reflex reaction.

She looked up at him through lowered lashes and moistened her lips; he stared down, lips parted, and swallowed. She touched a tongue to her upper lip and breathed, "If you have a class next period, I think you're going to be late." She released them, and they separated as if the three of them were magnets with the same polarity – which, in a way, she supposed, they were.

"I don't _believe_ you. How could you _do_ that?" Cynthia watched the boys slinking away, their gait bent and clumsy, their packs held low in front of them. "And you say you don't even like guys."

Sarah watched them leave as well. "Believe me," she said, "not liking them makes it _so_ much easier."

-0-

Bobby sat at an empty table in the school's science library, pushing his eyes and mind through a reference work that tried to explain Einstein using some seriously strange examples involving trains and lightning bolts. Kat would have breezed through it like it was a comic book, he was sure. Maybe Rox, too: she was way smarter than she usually let on. He probably wouldn't have been able to read the text if not for the patient tutoring of Darwin's instructors. He wondered again whether those teachers, who'd seemed so dedicated to his education and proud of his progress, had been partners in the conspiracy or fellow dupes. And if they'd been dupes, what had happened to them after all their students had been spirited away?

The chair on the other side of the table squeaked as it was pulled back. "Is this seat taken?"

He looked up: a girl from his American History class, name started with a 'J'; they'd traded maybe twenty words. She was resting a couple of books on her hip, waiting for his answer before she put them on the table. Tall, slender, light brown hair, glasses. He saw now that the eyes behind the lenses were hazel, and pretty. Nice smile. He didn't have to look around the room to know there were plenty of empty tables.

Sarah appeared behind the girl and tapped her on the shoulder. "My seat."

The girl glanced from Sarah to him. "Oh. Sorry." She turned away.

Sarah sat, and watched the girl set up at an unoccupied table twenty feet away. In a low voice she said, "I'm sure she'll come back as soon as I leave, if that's what you want."

Instead of answering, he said, in an equally low voice, "Long walk from the Natural Science building."

"Long walks are good for you. I'm especially fond of long walks on the beach."

He grinned. "Sounds like an online profile." When she didn't smile in return, he asked, "Something wrong?"

"No. Nothing." She seemed to think a second or two. "Anna and I were up by the pool, and we saw you and Caitlin together. It looked like you two had a moment."

Suddenly uncomfortable, he said, "Guess we did. It passed."

She held his eyes. "She's always liked you."

"And I like her." He started to say more, but she went on.

"I've wondered why you never went forward with that."

_Have you really?_ He swallowed a twinge of irritation. "It would be like dating my sister. I'm sure she feels the same way."

"I see." She broke eye contact. "Well. I just thought you should know you weren't entirely private. Whatever you were talking about, I'm almost certain Anna heard."

He nodded. "Yeah, I don't think much goes on around the house she doesn't know about. But she doesn't have any trouble keeping stuff to herself."

"Hm." She leaned forward, eyes on the table between them. "Bobby, if you ever need to talk to someone…"

He felt his butt clench and his face turn to stone. He looked at the Apache girl, thinking of her childhood on the reservation, cared for by loving parents in a house filled with happy sibs. _No. You couldn't understand. And I don't ever want to see you look at me with pity in your eyes._ "Thanks. Appreciate that."

She raised her eyes to watch him a moment, face smoothing to a cool mask. She stood. "Okay then. Got to catch a class." On her way out, she passed the table where Glasses Girl – Jackie, he remembered now - sat poring over her books. She leaned close. "All yours." She headed for the door, leaving the girl blinking at him and blushing.

_Pissed off again._ Bobby sighed and shut his book, knowing he'd never get back into it today. _I love her_, he thought as he gathered up his stuff, _but, sometimes, I simply don't know why._

San Diego

Joel eyed the slip of paper in his hand, glad that he was sitting. "That's… an interesting offer."

"It's an outstanding offer." One of the two men sharing the linen-covered table, the one who'd handed him the slip, smiled from behind his champagne glass. "Mr. Richards, my firm can only afford to hire the best. Second-raters are a waste of our money."

Joel's 'job interview' had taken place at a pricey downtown restaurant right after his last class. He'd felt like a hick, standing at the maitre'd's podium in his cheap suit, but when he'd given his party's name, the man had treated him like visiting royalty and escorted him to the table, where two expensively-dressed business types had waited, flutes in hand.

Over appetizers and drinks, they'd talked. Joel had listened, mostly: the 'interviewers' hadn't asked him any questions about his professional interests or studies or accomplishments or ambitions, seeming to already have the answers. Instead, they'd talked about their firm, making it sound like every research geek's wet dream: generous budgets, minimal paperwork and elbow-jiggling, supportive management. "Our hiring program screens its prospects very carefully, looking for genius, and then senior management pretty much turns that genius loose. It's been a very successful policy, which is why we can afford our salary scale. By the way, that's just the base salary, there's a hefty bonus schedule as well."

Joel looked at the slip again. The number on it was twice what he'd been thinking of asking for, and these guys hadn't even negotiated. "I, ah, I haven't really been looking at job offers yet. I mean, I've been contacted…"

"I'm not surprised we're your first prospects. We have a very aggressive scouting program." The man who'd been doing most of the talking smiled. "Do yourself a favor, Joel. If you want to compare apples to apples, don't tell any other recruiters you've spoken with us. Otherwise, you'll hear a lot of talk about their firm's traditions and corporate philosophy, their work environment, educational and travel opportunities – all the stuff you're not interested in. But they won't talk money, because they know they can't match our offer."

Joel leaned back. "So what's the catch?"

The two men smiled at each other. "Told you," said the other man.

The spokesman said to Joel, "Do you have any problem working under government contract, classified stuff?"

Joel swallowed a lump. "Weapons research?"

The man shook his head. "Not specifically. We do a great deal of pure research, and then look for ways to use it. But any new technology is likely to have military applications, and anything advanced enough is likely to be held close. That's another thing we look for, Joel – people who can be trusted to do their jobs and not jeopardize national security, just because they think they've got a better use for what they've developed than the people signing the paychecks. You've got a clean history: no memberships in subversive organizations, no questionable friends, no activist history. No stupid gaffes on Facebook or online forums. You've never even written a school paper critical of government policy. That's the reason we can offer you a chance to work on stuff nobody in private industry will see for years." He leaned back and regarded Joel with hooded eyes. "The pay is compensation for the inconvenience of some pretty stringent security rules. If getting your name in science journals means more to you than working with the best equipment and the brightest minds on the most significant discoveries of our time, all for a six-figure income, then we're done talking."

With the paper still gripped between thumb and forefinger, Joel said, "I don't have a problem with any of that. But, no offense, I'd still like to look around some."

"Of course. That's exactly what I'd expect from the sort of man we're looking for." The man blotted his lips with his linen napkin and stood, followed by his companion. "I hope this doesn't seem abrupt, but I think we're done talking for now, and I have an appointment at USC."

The second man said, "I'm headed back towards school, Joel. Can I give you a lift somewhere?"

"Sure. My house is about six blocks from campus, if you don't mind."

"Not at all."

While they waited for the valet to bring the cars around, the man who'd offered Joel a ride said, "Joel, do you have a driver's license?"

He nodded. "I don't use it much. My sister's usually got the car. I get by bumming rides or taking the bus."

"That's very sensible, for a young man with limited means. Cars are expensive."

A black Mercedes glided silently up to the curb in front of them, shining like a jewel. The trunk's lid opened and the hardtop folded itself away into it, revealing tan leather upholstery. The valet got out, shutting the door carefully, and placed the key in the agent's hand as if handling a treasure. The man tipped him, and turned to offer Joel the key. "Take the wheel, why don't you? It sounds like you could use a little practice."

Joel stared at the beautiful machine. The smells of leather and Armor All filled his nose. "Uh no, thanks, I-"

"Come on," the man coaxed, swinging the key on its leather fob. "I'm going to be driving all day. It'd be nice to have a short break from that."

Thirty minutes later, in front of his house, Joel handed back the key, feeling a little dreamy. "Thanks."

"It's a sweet ride." The man got in and inserted the key in the ignition. "Just got it, you might have noticed from the odometer."

"Uh, no."

"I trade in every year or two. There's always something I like better by then."

Joel's family owned three cars: the newest of them was four years old, and the hand-me-down sedan Mel drove was twelve. "You don't mind my asking, what's something like this cost?"

The trunk lid opened, and the car's convertible hardtop rose up and began to unfold. The recruiter met Joel's eyes. "Son, if you don't sign with us, you'll never afford one. If you do, the price won't matter." The top covered him and snicked into place. "You've got our number. We'll see you, I hope." He reached through the window to shake Joel's hand, then put the car in gear and drove off.

A block away, the recruiter engaged the car's hands-free phone. "I just left him. I'll be there in ten minutes."

The other recruiter asked, "_So?_"

He grinned at the sharply-raked windshield. "Are you kidding? Geek or not, he's still a kid. He had to fiddle with every control in the damn thing. I pretended not to notice a little detour he took past the campus. He almost rear-ended somebody trying to spot everyone who looked his way. It was kind of pathetic, really, watching him show off for a bunch of kids he tries to act like he doesn't give a rat's ass about. He hit the bait hard."

"_Okay, no need to turn up the pressure then, we'll just wait. He might interview for a couple other places first, but he'll sign with us._"

"They always do. But it's nice when they come along quietly. By the way, this guy Zysik says he's got another kid we should check out. Richards' lab partner, a girl." A left at the next light would take him to the school. "He doesn't say, but I get the impression she's cute, too. She's got a swim class or something. I can just pop over, take a quick look."

"_Forget about it, perv_," the man said. "_Some of these guys, one of their students gets an offer from us, they want to put in a word for every half-bright kid in their class. If this chick was any good, she'd have been scouted years ago, and we'd already have instructions to approach her._"

"Fine then." The intersection came up; he went straight, to meet his partner. "You sound pretty happy with Richards."

"_He fits our candidate profile to a T. Not only does he have the smarts, he has the temperament and the history, too. We've run half a dozen background checks on him since he was fourteen, the last one just a month ago, and they all come back the same. He's a loner with no friends and a small loose-knit family that he mostly ignores. He's obsessed with success at school, and with making big money at a job that doesn't bore him and where he doesn't have to deal with people. Nothing else matters. He's never had a girlfriend, not even one of the nerd chicks in his classes. He could take a job with us, move away, and drop off the face of the Earth, and nobody'd be suspicious. Just what we're looking for."_

MacArthur University

Twenty voices chanted, their voices echoing off the hard walls of the school's indoor pool, alternating with the stamping of feet on the bleachers, a sound like cannon fire.

"Feed the Kat!"

Stomp, stomp.

"Feed the Kat!"

Stomp, stomp.

"Feed the Kat!"

Stomp, stomp.

"Feed the Kat!"

Treading water with her knees up in front of her and just her head and shoulders exposed to the air, Caitlin watched a dozen swimmers churning through the water towards her. They took positions and paused. Not another point drive then, a maneuver the USC team had been fond of early in the game, but which had failed at every attempt. Instead, the ball was tossed from one offensive player to another, neatly eluding the defenders' efforts to intercept and taking them out of position, then sent skimming the surface towards the corner of the net. She heaved sideways, batting at the ball, and sent it sailing back.

The packed stands erupted. Caitlin had no attention to spare for a look, but the crowd seemed bigger than usual, and louder, the voices nearly all male. She put that thought aside and concentrated on the business at hand, watching the action at the opposite goal.

Her coach had told her that USC fielded a first-rate team, and Caitlin could see it in the way the opposing players worked together, seeming able to make the ball appear at the goal as if by magic. But Caitlin's senses and reflexes seemed tuned preternaturally high today, making the ball's final flight toward her seem as lazy as a beachball's. And the University of Southern California team was too used to winning: they'd come here thinking they were going to massacre a geek squad at an exhibition game, and were only now recognizing the MacArthur girls as a serious challenge.

The USC coach called a time out. Both teams swam to the pool's rim to take a rest. She stood, stretching her legs and raising her top half out of the water, which was only four feet deep at this end. Someone whistled; she ignored it, giving her attention to the conference poolside.

The USC coach was huddled with a referee and her trainer, Miss Huston. When the other team's coach gestured Caitlin's way, the referee shook his head and spoke a few words, and Miss Huston looked vindicated. It was another argument about whether Caitlin had touched bottom, she supposed; the referees, knowing her height was an issue at every game, watched her carefully, and knew she always played by the rules.

She glanced at the bleachers and saw that they were indeed packed today; the USC players had a sizeable following for a girls' team. She heard another whistle; this time she tracked the sound. On the top tier, Sarah sat, flanked by a couple of girlfriends – straight or otherwise, Caitlin couldn't tell. The Apache Princess gave her a closed-lip smile and a little wave and Caitlin smiled back, just as the ref's whistle called the end of time out and she dropped back into the water.

The match ended with MacArthur on top, two goals to none. The MacArthur team climbed out of the pool to loud applause. Feeling euphoric from the upset win, Caitlin stayed in the pool, intending to swim a few laps to cool down after the crowd dispersed; the place usually emptied out five minutes after the end of play. But today a good third of the fans seemed glued to their seats. One of her teammates stood at the rim, grinning down at her. "They're waiting for _you_, Miss Shut-out. Sometimes I wonder why the rest of us show up to play anymore."

"I just guard the net, Deanna. You can't win if you don't score." Caitlin gave up, placed her hands on the pool's lip, and pushed herself out. The applause freshened. She got a foot under her, stood, and was face-to-face with a very large male specimen offering a pool-issue towel and a sheepish smile.

She looked on him with cool eyes. "Hello, Gary." What was the point of the towel, she wondered, since the team was headed for the showers?

"Kat," Deanna said with a glance toward the other girls heading for the locker room, "do you want me to stay?"

She got it then. "No, thanks, Dee. Go ahead, I'll be right there." She looked down at the puddle at her feet and took the towel from his hand.

A chorus of low moans and a "hoo!" came from the stands. She flicked an eye that way and saw a large knot of young males in USC varsity jackets watching them. Gary, a member of USC's diving team, had apparently brought his own rooting section.

She resisted the impulse to push past him and head for the showers. She wasn't some little mouse to be chased into hiding by every predator – at least, not this moment. But she wasn't going to get angry, either. She was going to be cool and adult and listen to whatever he had to say; _then_ she'd decide what to do. Her resolve hardened. She pulled off her cap and combed out her damp hair with her fingers, waiting.

"I really crossed the line, I know," he said. "I was drinking, but that wasn't it." He flashed her a shy little grin that she was sure he'd used to good effect in the past. "I was just all caught up. All I could think about was showing up at that party with you on my arm, you know? Every guy there would have wished he was me."

She glanced up again at Gary's jock buddies, who were watching their friend's performance; one bent close to another to pass a quiet comment that made both boys grin. _Is that supposed to be a compliment? Telling me what a fine trophy I'd make? Do you and your friends call me 'Fantasy', too? _She looked away towards the lockers, the better to keep her temper in check, and blotted her face dry and started wiping down her arms. "You weren't just a boor to me, Gary. You insulted my friends."

"I got a cattle prod shoved in my ass for it, too."

"No, you got stun-gunned for threatening them. I wasn't going to mention that."

"Okay, I guess I still owe them an apology too."

She rubbed the towel across the top of her shoulders; she was still dripping freely onto the concrete. It seemed like her new suit held a pint of water under and between those dratted mutant growths on her chest. "Then tell them, not me."

"I will, as soon as I see them. Want some help with your back?"

"Thank you, I'm quite capable." She grasped a corner of the towel in each hand and sawed it up-and-down across her shoulder blades, then side-to-side down her back to her derriere.

"Anyway, I …" His voice trailed off.

She gathered the towel in one hand and rubbed the backs of her dripping thighs just under her bottom, moving slowly to give the terrycloth a chance to do its work and pressing hard on her hiney to blot up the water seeping from the suit. "Anyway…" She prompted.

He didn't answer. _Not used to apologies, Gary?_ She repressed the comment and continued to act as if he wasn't there, waiting for him to swallow his pride, or overcome his embarrassment in front of his friends, or whatever else was immobilizing his tongue. She turned the towel and bunched it again, this time pressing it against her sternum under the shelf formed by her bust. "So," she said, "have you changed your mind, or do you have something to say?"

"Uh." A pause. "Not yet."

Pushing down her impatience, she slowly slid the wrinkled towel down her front, letting it wick away the moisture through the fabric of her suit, until she reached the tops of her thighs. She turned to the bleachers and placed a foot on an empty spot on the bottom bench. She rubbed the leg dry from her ankle to where the suit met her thigh, then did the other. She glanced up at the stands: Gary's cheering section was staring down, silent and sort of glassy-eyed: bored with waiting for something to happen, no doubt. She looked farther up and saw Sarah still sitting on the top bench, alone now, watching her with a strange little smile.

Still nothing from her tongue-tied wolf. Idly, she ran a palm up and down her calf and knee and thigh, checking the state of her recent shave: still smooth. No surprise, really; the nearly transparent hairs that grew on her legs were superfine, and she'd only run the razor over them Saturday afternoon. But Saturday seemed like a long time ago. "Gary, if you don't have anything else to say, I need to go." She dropped her foot to the floor.

"Wait. Kat, I'm sorry. Really sorry." When he saw she wasn't about to turn her back on him, he went on, more slowly, "My behavior was… well, I don't have words. It'll never happen again. Please accept my apology."

She nodded. "Apology accepted." She flipped the towel over her shoulder and gave him a thin little smile.

An answering smile took root on his face and spread. "No hard feelings?"

"Not a one."

"So, maybe we can meet for coffee sometime."

"Maybe in another life, Gary." She turned and headed for the locker room.

When Caitlin was out of hearing, a girl in the second row said, "You almost had her for a minute there."

Gary pulled his attention from the tall redhead's derriere to regard the girl. "Really?"

She snorted. "No, not really."

In the locker room, some of the girls were out of the showers and dressing by the time Caitlin entered; the humid air was loaded with the scents of soap and shampoo and lotion and cosmetics and all the other gear college-age females applied to face the public. She perched on the bench in front of her locker, feeling sort of washed out from the past few minutes' emotional roller coaster. While she gathered the ambition to strip and head for the shower, she made small talk with her team mates who stopped by. A few of them talked about the game, but most, alerted by Deanna, circled around the topic of the hunk from USC who'd come to see her. "We met at a party Saturday night," she said over and over. "He thought we hit it off. I didn't. End of story."

"Saturday night, huh?" One girl asked. "You're not talking about the mixer at the Chi's, are you?"

"That's the one," she said cautiously.

"You've only been here two weeks. How'd you get…" The girl looked down at her and shook her head. "Never mind, stupid question. Every Chi who goes here must have referred you for an invite."

"A couple of girls in the art college invited me, actually. I went as their guest," Kat said.

"So," said another team mate, "who else did you meet there?"

"Nobody, really. I stuck close to my friends. A few guys came up and introduced themselves, but we didn't talk much." She head-shrugged. "I'm just not the party type, I guess."

Deanna shook her head. "You went to a 'do where every girl has her pick of jocks and millionaires' sons, hot guys just _dripping_ through your fingers, and you didn't get one phone number." She turned away. "You're mental."

The room cleared and grew quiet; eventually Caitlin was alone. She took off her suit and was reaching for a towel when Sarah's voice came echoing into the room. "Hello, who's in here?"

"Just me." Caitlin wrapped the towel around herself; being a standard-size towel, it needed careful adjustment to cover her booty and bust at the same time. She tucked it in just as the Apache Princess appeared, alone. "Sorry I'm taking so long. Where are your friends?"

"Gone. Not a problem." Sarah glanced around the empty room. "I'm glad we're alone in here, actually. A lesbian in the locker room is _such_ a dilemma for straight girls. If they're too casual about being undressed around me, they call their own sexual orientation into question." She gave Caitlin an eyebrow shrug. "But if they make a big deal about it, as if I was a man…"

"They call their sexual orientation into question." Caitlin turned back to her locker to gather up her shower things. "I'm going to skip my hair. I won't be long."

"Don't hurry. I don't have any plans." Sarah stepped close beside her. "Except … well, I thought we might just spend some time together. It seems like it's been forever."

Caitlin nodded. "It really has." She missed the easy intimacy she and Sarah had shared at Darwin, before her transformation. They'd been such unlikely friends, the cool clever Apache girl and the geeky little child prodigy, but Sarah had seemed to understand her thoughts and feelings better than anyone. They'd talked about family and school and books and philosophy and politics and a hundred other things, and found common ground even when they didn't agree. They were still good friends, and still spoke easily on many subjects. But it felt now like they were always talking across a chasm: narrow, but deep and uncrossable.

The shift in their relationship hadn't been gradual, and the physical changes triggered by her Gen had had nothing to do with it. Caitlin knew the exact moment it had occurred: between third and fourth classes on her seventeenth birthday, standing in front of her school locker with Sarah beside her, much as they were now.

Sarah must have sensed her unease; she stepped back and stilled. "I could wait for you up in the stands, if you want."

"_No_. Listen, I'll make it quick. Just take a seat." She tied her hair up, carried her toiletries and her clothes into the shower room, and did a quick lather and rinse. She shut off the water and, as she began toweling off, eyed the neat bundle of clothing on the sink. If it had been Roxy waiting by her locker, would she still have brought her clothes in here to change? "We don't have a lot of time," she called to the girl in the next room as she stepped into her panties. "Dinner's at six."

"Fem Fare, right," Sarah said absently, her voice echoing on the hard surfaces. "No doubt the boys will find an excuse to ditch."

She struggled into her bra, putting it on backwards with the shoulder straps under her arms so that she could secure the hooks in front of her, then turning it around. One at a time, she slipped her arms under the straps and pulled them up over her shoulders, then performed a few adjustments to properly holster her guns. "Bobby's home for dinner every night. And he's never complained about anything Anna served." _And he never will_, she thought, remembering what he'd told her the day before. _Not after what he lived on for two years._ She braced her rear end against the sink to pull on her socks. "Then he's headed to practice at Melanie's. They're doing two sessions a week now. We could check it out if you want."

"Maybe," Sarah said. Her tone turned teasing. "Will Joel be there?"

"I hope so." Caitlin pulled on her jeans. They were the same ones she'd taken off; the size of her wardrobe dictated a minimum of daily changes. "He has a job interview today. I'd like to hear how it went." She slipped a fresh top over her head. "We're just friends, Sarah. Besides, he already has a girlfriend."

"Alex, the pretty little blonde with the wry sense of humor."

She tucked her shirt in and gathered up her things. "Was it that obvious?"

"Only to me."

Caitlin nodded to herself. Sarah had a talent for reading people's interactions: at Darwin, she could always tell you who was dating whom, which couples were struggling or on the outs, even which kids were just beginning to develop mutual interest – sometimes before said kids realized it themselves. When it came to relationships, Sarah Rainmaker was a hard person to keep a secret from.

Caitlin rounded the corner to find Sarah straddling the bench a short distance from her locker. Kat said, "I don't think they're trying to keep it a secret or anything. I just think Joel's not certain how to handle her. I'm pretty sure she's his first girlfriend."

"I'm very sure." Sarah leaned back with her hands gripping the edges of the bench. "Gary was just the way you described. He was hitting on another girl twenty seconds after you turned your back on him."

Caitlin pulled her bag out of her locker and began to load it. "Any luck?"

"After what you did to him?" Sarah scoffed. "That story will be all over both schools by this time tomorrow. The only girls who'll be giving him time for awhile will be bubbleheads who want _him_ for a trophy."

Caitlin shut the locker door and hoisted her bag. "Ready. Well, he only has himself to blame. He shouldn't have come at me in public, not that _I_ would have mentioned that stun gun business. He told on himself."

Sarah followed her out the door into the pool area, which was now deserted. The Apache girl said, "I wasn't talking about that. I was referring to _your_ performance. You showed everybody in the stands that you weren't buying it, and you knew what he was really after. Frankly, I'd never have guessed you had it in you."

"Was I really that hard? I accepted his apology. I just refused a date, is all."

Sarah stopped. Caitlin halted and turned to see her friend frowning at her. "What were you doing with that towel?"

She glanced at the spot at the foot of the stands where she and Gary had had their talk: the concrete was still dark. Puzzled, she said, "I was drying off."

The girl studied her face a moment and shook her head. "Incredible. Caitlin Fairchild, you need a keeper, you really do."


	20. Playing By the Rules

La Jolla  
Monday April 5 2004

Caitlin turned the car down the Richards' street, an arrow-straight suburban drive sprinkled with parked cars and lined with neat little houses close to the street and to each other. She looked down toward Joel and Melanie's place near the end of the street, and took her foot of the gas. The minivan coasted, slowing.

Beside her, Sarah said, "Is something wrong?"

"I don't know. Looks like practice is breaking up early."

A Mercedes convertible sat at the curb in front of the house, facing their way. Its trunk was open, and a blonde-haired woman Caitlin recognized was tossing an instrument case into it with more haste than care. She slammed the lid down, jerked open the driver's door, dropped in, and fired the car up. The Benz didn't squeal its tires as it took off, but the vehicle was breaking the twenty-five-miles-per-hour speed limit before it passed the first house. It rolled by, and Caitlin saw Kim Perlman glaring out the windshield, hands tight on the wheel.

Bobby ambled out of the open garage door with his acoustic case in hand. He glanced down the street, spied the approaching minivan, and gave a little wave. When they pulled up, he stepped into the street to talk through the driver's window. "Hey, guys."

"Bobby, is practice over?"

"Yeah." He glanced at the compact he'd driven to the house. "Nobody's in the mood anymore. Going to hit the skate park with Eddie before it gets dark. You sticking?"

Caitlin looked past him into the garage, and saw the other three band members frozen at their instruments, watching: Alex sitting behind her drum set, sticks still in her hand; Lori gripping the sides of her Yamaha; Melanie holding her guitar in front of her as if for protection or concealment. Caitlin glanced at Sarah, and got a tiny nod. "Maybe for a little while."

"Kay. See you back at the house." He dropped the case into the car's rear seat, got in, and took off.

"Hm," said Sarah. "Did he seem just a little _too_ relaxed?"

The two girls got out and headed up the driveway. Mel, Lori and Alex watched them. Alex, her face flushed, set her sticks down carefully on her cans with a soft _tattatat_, and Kat saw her hands were shaking. Lori and Mel shared a brief look.

"Melanie," Caitlin said, "is everything all right?"

The girl placed her guitar in its stand. "I don't know how you share a roof with him, I really don't."

"You get used to him," Sarah said. "What happened?"

Lori let go of her keyboard and crossed her wrists over her breast. "He was magnificent."

"Kim showed up for practice," Melanie said. "Unexpected."

"And uninvited," Alex said. "Guess Mondays aren't inconvenient enough."

"Ten minutes late," Melanie went on. "Making an entrance, I think. She was here yesterday, and picked up a lot of our songbook already. She came in with two cases and started unpacking as if we'd been waiting for her."

"She treated us like studio players she'd hired for backup," Alex said. "Everybody but Bobby. She introduced herself before Mel had a chance, and asked him for help setting up her keyboard - right at his elbow. She talked guitars with him, and gave him a couple compliments about his choices, and asked him about his favorite music. Working him hard. Not just flirting. Cutting the rest of us out, like the two of them were the only people in the room who mattered."

Sarah scoffed. "How long did he put up with _that_?"

Alex smiled. "Well, he gave us all a glance, you know, like he was asking if this bimbo was for real. I think I fell in love with him right then. But Mel just shrugged and picked up where we'd left off. We got through a couple songs – Kim was here yesterday, and picked up quite a bit of our songbook – and then she butts in with a song suggestion, one of hers, and she just starts playing it. None of us knows it, of course, so all of a sudden our practice is the Kim Perlman Show."

"She was good on keyboard, gotta give her that," Lori said.

"She plays this tune, smiling at Bobby the whole time, then finishes up and says, 'or how about this one?' And starts another of her concert specials, a love ballad. When she's done, she asks Bobby what he thinks – not any of us, just him."

Sarah arched an eyebrow. "And?"

The little blonde's grin widened. "He told her."

"Not at first," Melanie said. "He just said it was pretty, but he didn't think it was the Sirens' style. You should have seen her face. It's probably the most lukewarm review she's ever gotten. Then he asked me what we should play next – changing the subject, sort of, and bringing us back into the discussion. But she wouldn't let it go. She told him that tune had won her standing ovations. She acted like she was doing us a favor by offering to play it at our gigs.

"That's when Bobby warmed up. He said, 'Well, maybe our audiences are a little more discerning than you're used to. I think they'd boo you off the stage with that piece of crap.'"

"Swear, the temp in the room went up," Alex said. "I broke out in a sweat."

"She was so shocked she couldn't speak," Melanie went on. "But he wasn't done. He said, 'The score is clever and technically challenging. But as a love song, it falls flat. The lyrics are just too witty and generic and soulless. Your singing voice has great range and control, but there's no emotional depth to it. Anybody who's been in love can listen to you do this and know you don't have a clue what love is.'"

Alex said, "I never wanted to kiss a boy so bad in my life."

"Just kiss him?" Lori smiled. "For a second, it looked like she couldn't decide whether to slap him or grab him by the ears and plant one on him. Then her injured pride won out, I guess. She said, 'I don't have to put up with this,' and a few other things, and started packing up. But real slow, like she was waiting for him to apologize, or maybe for somebody to beg her to stay." The smile widened. "He unplugged her keyboard and wound up the cord."

La Jolla  
Tuesday April 6 2004

Randolph 'Skip' Masterton sat in a wide padded chair on the flybridge of his shiny new forty-two-footer, one hand on the wheel, at peace with the world. The reassuring rumble of the twin diesels at quarter throttle mixed with the cries of gulls following his wake and the music from the cabin below. He smiled as the sun disappeared beneath the sea on his right, setting the sky above him on fire.

The boat wasn't really new, or really his – yet. It was an immaculate year-old Azimut, an Italian-built luxury cruiser that looked as fast and sleek as a Ferrari despite being three times the size of his old boat. The marina working on his Sea Ray usually rented the deluxe craft by the day or week to select customers, but had offered it to him gratis as a loaner, no doubt looking for more business from his father. Skip was sure they'd make him a great deal on it and take his Ray in trade to get his father's ninety-six-footer in their service slip on a regular basis.

The Azimut was a sweet ride, with all the bells and whistles. The dash looked like a fighter cockpit, full of switches and lights for everything from the docking thrusters to the bilge pumps, as well as displays for the radios, sonar and radar. The flybridge extended back over the rear deck into an upper-level lounge, to bring the party to him while he piloted high above the water. The cabin below was roomy enough for a TV lounge, kitchen, and foul-weather pilot's station. It also had three separate bedrooms, which would come in _very_ handy if the coming trip worked out as expected.

Skip and his buds were beginning a long-planned weeklong excursion down the Baja coast. There were plenty of resorts there, and a number of American-transplant retirement communities too, built to take advantage of the lower standard of living in Mexico. They were just like upscale subdivisions back home, neat walled and gated communities where the only Spanish was spoken by the groundskeepers and domestic staff. Some of the property owners had kids his age who shared the three boys' lifestyle and interests, a fun crowd. Skip's father had several old friends down there, and Skip had an open invitation to visit from one of them – and another rather different invitation from his daughter.

The sky changed from orange to turquoise as the twilight deepened, and lights began to shine like stars on the shore to his left. Skip smiled and flipped on the running lights. If Laura was elsewhere or otherwise engaged, there would still be plenty of fun ahead. Her father would still get Skip a slip at the community dock, and they'd stay on the boat, at a safe distance from gossips who might report back to the old man. A tourist district lay just outside the community's walls; there were plenty of clean safe places to drink and dance and party. And the army of servants and entertainers in the area included plenty of pretty girls who appreciated the attention of a rich young _Norteamericano_. It was shaping up to be a memorable vacay.

He heard someone climbing the steep built-in steps. Dale, his oldest friend, appeared above the deck with a pair of Carta Blancas. "Dude," he said as he passed over an ice-cold beer. "We are _there_." They clinked bottles. "Rich is fixing munchies. What's the plan for tonight? Drive right through, or put in somewhere?"

"Depends. We can play it any way we want, really." There were a number of places along the way where they might dock, or sheltered places where they could simply drop anchor for the night. That had been the original plan, back when they'd been taking the Ray. But the Azimut, unlike his Sea Ray, was well-equipped for night travel.

Dale eyed the throttle settings and the water-speed gauge. "This rate, we won't be pulling in till after midnight."

"Party'll be just heating up then." Skip took a pull from his bottle with an eye on the shoreline a quarter mile distant. The dark cliffs of the state beaches were behind them; the boat was rounding the promontory that marked the beginning of La Jolla and its pricey beach communities. "Twice the speed burns four times the fuel. There are places to fill up along the way, but I don't know how late they'll be open."

"Well, we could take a turn at the wheel if you want a break." He grinned. "Rich is lusting after this baby."

"Forget _that_. I'm having a talk with the old man as soon as we get back. This bitch is mine."

They motored on. The last of the light left the sky, and a breeze came up, making Skip glad of his light windbreaker. His mood turned darker as well. He didn't understand why until it occurred to him that they were nearing the spot where the Ray had capsized. When the wave had struck, the thirty-footer had heaved as if it was a bathtub toy, and he'd been flung toward shore like a stone from a catapult, surfacing just in time to catch the wave again and be slammed to the bottom. For a bad moment, he'd thought he was going to die.

He reminded himself that that event had put him behind the wheel of this fine new ride, a floating apartment with a bed for each of them. But another thought intruded: _by all rights, we should still be one bed __short downstairs_.

Dale must have been feeling it too. He said, "Talk to him today?"

"Yeah," Skip said. "Just for a minute. He's still pretty out of it."

"I ordered a security upgrade for my house today," called Richard from the open door beneath them. "Fucking animals."

Their friend Eric had been in and out of surgery – and mostly out of this world – since Sunday night. Skip had seen him briefly on Monday, and had sort of wished he hadn't: the guy had looked like he'd driven his Jag off a cliff. He was covered with plaster and bandages, and had so many tubes and wires running in and out of him you'd think he was on life support. According to his parents – possibly in the same room for the first time since the divorce -Eric's life wasn't in danger, but he was going to need a lot of reconstructive surgery and physical therapy.

Eric had been more or less lucid while Skip was visiting. The cops were already there, looking for a statement, and had questioned Eric as closely as the guy's condition would allow. They'd traded a look over Eric's disjointed story about being assaulted by two strangers who broke into his garage.

"Eric," one of the cops had said, "do you know anyone who might want to do you harm?"

The stare Eric had fixed on the cop's face had told Skip that his friend was about to tell a whopper. "No. Nobody."

Skip had wanted to talk after the cops left, but a nurse had bustled in and stuck a needle into one of Eric's IVs and sent him off to la-la land. Out in the hall, the cops were talking with Skip's mom and dad. "I'd rather not elaborate, but your son's injuries and the damage to the car occurred at the same time, in the garage. Whoever did this doesn't appear to have been inside the house," one of them had said. "I can't rule out an interrupted burglary, but… Mr. Calvin, has anyone threatened your son recently? Any enemies you know of?"

Eric's dad had been clueless, of course. Still, even without whatever info Eric hadn't wanted to share with the cops, Skip supposed he could draw his own dots and connect them well enough.

Dot One: last Saturday, around noon, the four of them are motoring by La Jolla and spot four bikini-clad hotties lounging at a backyard pool overlooking the beach. They decide to try their luck and drop anchor, only to be chased off public land by a rent-a-cop and two big dangerous-looking guys with guns under their coats.

Dot Two: Saturday night, Eric runs into one of the beach babes alone at a party, and invites her for a drive in his Jag that ends at his house. She downs a bottle of Dom while they shoot a few games of pool, then leads him into his bedroom and screws him blind.

Dot Three: Sunday night, Eric gets the living shit beat out of him in his own house, and his pretty Jag is turned to scrap.

The three of them had discussed it earlier on the dock as they'd walked from cars to boat and back again, loading their gear. "A _very_ clear message, I'd say," Richard had said. "Hope she was worth it." _Better him than me_, he hadn't said; the little dye job had been Rich's 'prize' in the scissor-paper-rock contest when they'd picked targets.

"Yeah," Skip had said, thinking of a dot he'd kept to himself, after the look his friends had shared when he'd first brought it up, shortly after they'd talked to the Coasties; if he'd persisted, he was sure they would think he was losing it.

But they hadn't seen that girl's eyes.

They were approaching the spot now. A string of well-lighted houses appeared along the beach ahead, shining like gems on a necklace. One of them, the third from the left he thought, was where he'd washed up half-drowned to see her staring down at him from the top of the steps.

"It was a fluke, man," Dale said in a low voice. "The Coast Guard said so. Just a freak wave, something that happens maybe a couple times a year. We just hit the lotto, that's all." But he glanced out to sea as he said it.

It had seemed like a harmless joke, cruising by the beach house with a bottle of bubbly to applaud the girl's performance. They'd also wondered if the girls might all be more approachable now that one of them had been scored; sometimes it happened. And one of them, at least - the one he'd 'won', the beauty with the great tan and the long black hair - had seemed to take it in good humor. But now Skip was certain she hadn't taken it well at all.

His rational mind argued that the dark girl's little striptease was just play, not a ploy to bring the boat to a halt and turn all their attention towards shore; that she'd stopped flirting so suddenly because she'd seen the wave rise up behind them and frozen.

But when he'd washed up on shore and finished retching up seawater, he'd regained his wits and lifted his head and she'd been standing right there, as if she'd been waiting for him. As if the freaking wave had _delivered_ him to her. She'd looked at him without an atom of surprise or sympathy, her eyes daring him to put into words what he was thinking. Then, eyes still flat and filled with contempt, she'd lifted her top and given him the peek at her tits that he'd gestured for from the boat, her message plain as anything: _was it worth it?_

"Hey," Richard called, "grub's almost ready. Bring it up?"

"And a couple more beers," Dale called down.

"Oke." Skip heard the sliding door open and shut as his friend re-entered the cabin.

"Hey," Dale said, staring towards shore. "Isn't that the house?"

Skip followed his friend's gaze. They'd drawn alongside the string of beach houses now; at the third one from the left, someone was moving around the pool. He couldn't make out much detail at this distance, but it looked like a girl in a white bikini.

"Not mine," Dale said. He'd drawn the stacked redhead, who'd worn a green bikini on Saturday and a white one on Sunday. The only other girl who'd worn white ….

A pair of ten-power binoculars was nestled in the document compartment at Skip's right hand. He pulled them out and trained them on the shore. Under power, the boat bobbed very little in the calm water, and he was able to find the back of the house with no trouble.

The little blonde who'd been Eric's 'prize' was skimming the pool with a long-handled net. Skip admired the slender girl's bare legs and flat belly, and the graceful way she moved around the pool, pushing and turning the tool as if performing with it. She might have been last choice in the draft, but she was still plenty cute, even if she didn't have much of a rack-

She lifted her head and stared right at him.

He fumbled the binocs and almost dropped them. "Shit."

Dale said, "What is it?"

"She…" He hesitated. _Get a grip. You're a quarter mile out. There's no moon, and her night vision is shot from all the house lighting. She probably doesn't even see your nav lights._ _Even_ _if it was noon, she wouldn't recognize the boat, and three hundred yards is way too far to recognize faces. She just heard the engines, that's all, and she's staring out into the dark._ He lifted the glasses again, found the beach, the steps, raised the glasses a touch to the pool deck…

She was staring dead into his eyes.

He froze, unable to look away.

Her mouth moved, stretching wide, forming words in exaggerated pantomime.

_Go. Away._

He dropped the glasses back into the holder with a clunk, tightened his grip on the wheel, and shoved the throttles forward. The engines shouted, and the bow rose briefly before the trim tabs brought it back down.

From below, Rich called, "What the _fuck_?" Dale glanced from Skip to shore and back again.

Skip raised his voice to be heard over the growl of the engines. "Maybe midnight _is_ a little late." He fixed his eyes on the radar screen as the boat picked up speed. "Let's kick it, just for a while."

Escondido  
Wednesday April 7 2004

Anna put on her most earnest expression and stared up into her companion's closed face. "Mr. Garcia, this isn't what you're thinking."

"I think I've been offered enough bribes to know one when I see one." The building inspector's hand dropped to the cell phone holstered at his hip.

"_No_." Anna didn't put the sheaf of bills in her hand back in her bag; instead, she waved them in his face. His hand, which had closed around the phone to draw it out, stilled. Even though her offer of the money had offended him, a handful of twenties three inches from his nose still claimed his attention. "Just hear me out, sir. Then do whatever your conscience demands. Will you?"

He took his hand off the phone and folded his arms, waiting.

They were standing alone in the Escondido warehouse. The ruined interior had been cleared away, leaving a huge empty brick-walled cavern. The double row of windows fronting the street was boarded over, eliminating the only source of natural light. Powerful worklights provided bright area lighting, but left much of the space in shadow. Anna pushed aside an unbidden memory of the Nevada warehouse and began.

"Mr. Garcia, offering you money to turn your head is the exact opposite of what I intended. The new owners are going to be dropping a great deal of capital into this project, and they want everything done right from the very start. They instructed me, as their agent, to hire someone for a more thorough structural inspection."

The man's frown deepened. "More thorough."

"Sir," she said carefully, "the Planning Commission knows that the Historical Preservation Society will be looking over its shoulder at this case. I was sure it would send its best man out for the inspection. I've watched you working, and I'm sure I was right. But I know that inspectors are only allowed to render official judgments based on minimum standards." She presented the money again. "After you've done the inspection required by law, I'd like you to look this place over again, as if it was yours. Anything that bothers you, even if it's legally permissible, I want to know about." She looked around the big space. "After all, what better time to find and fix problems than when the building's a blank slate and everything's accessible?"

He unfolded his arms. "Put your money away," he said. "I can't work for you. Conflict of interest, even if the purpose is what you say."

"Oh." She let her hand drop to her side. "I'm sorry. Could you recommend someone? Or would that violate professional ethics?"

"Just follow me. Do you have something to take notes with?"

"_Yes!_ I mean, no, but I have a very good memory."

"Well." He turned away, stepping over thick power cords. "There may not be much to remember. What's left of this place is solid. Shame they replaced the brick floor with concrete."

"You've been here before?"

"Twice. Twelve years ago, when the city was thinking of bulldozing it and the HPS stepped in. Then a year later at the start of the apartment conversion." As they made their way toward the wall, he said, "I haven't seen any plans for the renovation."

"It's at the concept stage," she said. "Pending the initial inspection."

"Apartments again?"

"Uh ."

"Well, that should make the Hippies glad."

"Hippies?"

"HP. Historic Preservation. I know some of them were worried it might get turned into low-income again. But this doesn't seem the right neighborhood for upscale. It's not slums, nothing like that. And crime's low. But I think you're gonna have a hard time finding renters."

"We have some ideas about that."

They were at one of the building's outer walls, an expanse of dark-red brick blackened further by soot. He produced a big folding knife and scraped gently at one of the bricks, revealing much brighter material beneath, then dug at the mortar joint next to it. "Hm. A little damage, but…" He produced a small steel ruler with a sliding gauge and probed the cavities. "Well within code."

"But is it safe?" She pressed.

He looked down on her, as most adults did. "That's what code is for. And the reg's meant to apply to standard brick walls that are usually no more than eight inches thick. These are thirty if they're an inch. So yeah. Just dig out the crumbly mortar and re-point it, scour the char off the bricks and apply a coat of sealer, and you're good." He took a large flashlight from his belt and shone it up toward the center of the ceiling. The beam pierced the shadows to reveal massive wooden trusswork high above, darkened by fire or age. "That's another story. Most of the interior was ruined by smoke and water, but if there's serious fire damage, that's where we'll find it. But I can't really take a look. I'll have to come back with a truckload of scaffolding and a crew. Or else dig a hole in the roof. Ceiling must be thirty feet."

"Thirty-two feet, six inches," she said. At his look, she went on, "I checked it out with one of those laser gadgets. The walls are all plumb and square, too. Mr. Garcia, are you afraid of heights?"

He scoffed. "Building inspection's no job for a man afraid of heights."

"Let me make a call or two. There are little boom trucks that will fit through the outside door, aren't there?"

His eyebrows rose briefly. "The front door, sure. If you knock out the blocked-in half." He gave her the names of three rental companies. "You might not find one that can deliver today."

"We'll see." Phone in hand, she followed the inspector as he made his way toward the back of the building, checking the walls wherever they looked discolored. She called the first number and asked to speak to the manager. Garcia's eyebrows rose again when she offered the rental agent a triple fee for delivery within an hour, but his only comment was, "Looks dry in here, now all the wet stuff's been pulled out. Would have been a shame to knock a hole in the roof if it's sound."

She smiled and made another call, this time to a local remodeler, and arranged for the front doorway of the old warehouse to be restored to its former dimensions. When the man on the other end, who was the owner, promised to send a crew out right away, she offered another premium for quick service, but he refused; the company was a family business, the same one she'd hired to demolish and clean up the interior, and she had tipped the workers generously.

They reached the rear door and stairwell. Mr. Garcia eyed the Brand new steel door and nodded. "Good idea, fencing in the parking lot out back," he said. "People around here will chase you down the street to give you back your wallet if you drop it, but construction materials are fair game." The man shone his flashlight down the winding stair and gave her a sidelong look. "No telling what's down there. This place has been wide open for months."

"I'll go first, then."

He scoffed and started down the stairs. "Half the building's volume is below grade. It used to be an ice house as well as a warehouse and mercantile. But you won't be able to put apartments down here without extensive alterations."

She followed him down. "What sort of alterations?"

"Digging, mostly. Every apartment will need two exits, one leading directly outside. And every floor needs two stairways. Fire code." They reached the first basement. Mr. Garcia swung his light around: the beam made a tiny circle of light on the distant wall. He shone it up to reveal the blank ceiling nine feet above the floor. "Plenty of room to install utilities, anyway."

"I don't think the owners will want to make any big changes to the building's exterior," she said. "We'll use the space for storage and such, or not at all."

"There are ways to do it without it showing from the street. Still, if you forgo that option, it's sure to ease the approval process." The flashlight's beam traveled over a big furnace with a hydra of ductwork running all over the ceiling. "Junk."

"Damaged?"

"No, just junk. The housing board was always getting complaints about the heat in this place. Code has been upgraded since this was put in, but if the building's footprint remains unchanged and this unit is still functional, then technically…" He let the sentence trail off.

"It goes," she said firmly.

His smile was brief but wide. "There's something on this floor you need to see." He led her away from through the darkness to one of the side walls and began to walk alongside it. "Afraid of the dark?"

Anna's LE optics enabled her to discern all four walls of the big space using the scant lumens reflected from Mr. Garcia's light; she noted that they seemed to be making their way toward a large wooden door set into the outside wall. "Sometimes, when I'm alone."

"Ah." They stopped at the door. "I figured they wouldn't do anything with this, since it wasn't required. Hold the light." He pulled at the door, and it swung out crookedly on broken hinges, scraping across the floor. "Take a look."

She shone the flashlight into the opening, which illuminated it to her eyes bright as day. A rough passage led away from the door, ending in a heap of rubble forty meters distant. "What is it?"

"A tunnel, obviously, but I don't know what for. This used to be a cold storage area, with the ice house on the floor below – you can see where there used to be a hole in the floor for hauling the blocks up and down." He took the light from her and shone it all around the tunnel walls. "The opening is original to the building, I'd say. There are no plans on file predating the renovation, but I think there was a cargo elevator here, probably winch- or horse-drawn. Whether the tunnel was dug at the same time or after, I can't say, but the shaft was filled in at some point."

"Where does it go?"

"Only as far as you see, now. Where it used to go, I don't know. At a guess, you're looking at a bolt-hole of some kind. Probably dug at the same time as the basements. This area was still a sort of no-man's land between feuding land barons in the eighteen-eighties, and there were still a few restless Indian tribes hereabouts too." He smiled. "Might have come in handy during Prohibition, when this place was a distribution center for hooch all along the West Coast."

She stared down the tunnel. "That's very interesting."

"If I were you, I'd have it filled in. You don't want someone mowing the grass falling into it. I'm pretty sure it extends past your property line, so you'll want to have it surveyed."

They descended to the lower basement, but found only sturdy fieldstone walls. He said, "Half expected this to be flooded from the fire hoses."

"It was, about six inches deep. I had it pumped out."

"Well, it was built to collect icemelt. No harm." But he looked carefully at the floor and walls just the same.

As they climbed the stair, Mr. Garcia said, "How many apartments are you thinking of putting in, then?"

"We're not sure. No more than a dozen."

"Really." They reached the ground floor, and the inspector gazed around the dark hangar-sized space. "About the same as before. Thought you said you were going upscale."

"We are. A student-community floor plan. Big bedrooms. Shared kitchen and bathrooms, lots of common space. It's the newest thing."

He scoffed. "A dozen college-age kids could trash all your work in a week."

"There'll be a caretaker on site. And we'll screen our applicants carefully." She smiled. "It'll be like joining a frat without having to pledge."

"Long commute from L.A. or San Diego. Specially when I-15 packs up."

"Oh, I think we can find a handful of students looking for a little seclusion."

"Whose parents have deep pockets. And want to keep their kids isolated from all the campus hijinks." He nodded. "Maybe."

A knock at the front door announced the arrival of the renovator's crew. Twenty minutes later, the eight-by-eight doorway stood wide open, and the men left, promising 'Miss D' to return at her call to board up the opening.

Mr. Garcia eyed the void. "That's not a standard size for an opening anymore. I'm afraid you'll have to close it up again, a few inches at least. Unless you can find someone to build you a custom door."

She smiled and showed him a catalog from her bag, its pages full of antique trimwork and paneling. "There's a firm in San Francisco that salvages and reconditions architectural details from old buildings. They have a very nice atrium door that should fit perfectly. They're putting it on a truck as we speak."

He shook his head. "Cost really is no object with you people. I'd sure like to know who's bankrolling this."

Her lashes lowered. "That would be a violation of my professional ethics, sir."

He grinned at her, then they both turned toward the opening at the sound of a big diesel. A flatbed semi pulled up in the street outside, a small boom truck strapped to its trailer.

Fifteen minutes later, the little machine was easing silently through the front doorway. Mr. Garcia positioned it at one end of the floor and began deploying its outrigger legs. He waved her away when she started to help. "Don't get your hands dirty. This'll only take a minute." When he was done, he said, "Want to go up?"

She eyed the stenciled warning on the side of the bucket: MAX LOAD 250LBS. "I think we may be a little over."

"Don't worry about that," he said. "They always cut the safe load by half."

She raised an eyebrow. "Well. A safety inspector who ignores posted warnings?"

He smiled, mostly with his eyes. "It's my wild streak coming out. No, really, it's just for liability, in case some nitwit tries to use the truck without extending the legs. It's safe. Unless you're afraid?"

She stepped up into the bucket. "Lay on, MacDuff."

With a whine of hydraulics, the jointed boom unfolded and lifted them smoothly toward the roof. The bucket platform swayed a little as they approached the top. "It's all right," the inspector said.

Anna smiled. "I know. You wouldn't have invited me if there was the least danger."

The massive trusswork came within reach, dark wood beams sixteen inches thick bound together with heavy steel plates and wrist-thick bolts. Mr. Garcia reached up and scraped at a member with a fingernail, freshening the smell of smoke. "Hm."

"What?"

"Hundred-twenty-year-old oak lumber. Hard as iron. Not even charred. If it's all like this, you'll only have to paint it with Kilz or some such before you frame and drywall the ceiling."

"Actually, there was some discussion about leaving part of the trusswork exposed. Is there some way to clean the wood and get rid of the smell without covering it?"

He touched a control, and the bucket slid sideways along the beam, swaying. "There are enzyme applications. But they have to be professionally applied, and they're-"

"Expensive."

"Right." He scoffed. "I'll give you the name of a firm."

They explored the entire support structure, descending to move the truck several times. Halfway through, he said, "You're not bored with this?"

"Not at all. You make it all very interesting."

An hour later, the truck folded up for the last time, and Mr. Garcia stowed the outriggers. "Nothing left but the roof. Don't expect to find much. You could park cars on that trusswork, and the decking looks sound from underneath. Just a looky-look at the flashing and brickwork and we're done." He smiled "Hungry? There's a nice little diner a couple blocks away."

She lowered her lashes again. "At the risk of sounding full of myself, could saying 'yes' possibly be construed as a bribe?"

"Possibly," he said. "I just turned down half a grand from your hand. I think I can risk someone seeing us together. Uh, wait, I didn't mean to imply-"

She giggled. "Yes. I'm on a diet, but I'd love to sip water and talk while you eat."

An hour later, at the still-open front door, the inspector took his leave. He said, "When you call for your electrical and plumbing inspections, mention my name. It won't be me comes out, but they'll know me."

There would be no other inspections. Mr. Lynch and she had agreed that no outsiders would be allowed inside the house once construction began, and no plans of the interior's real layout would be submitted to any records bureau. From this point, all official documentation regarding the building's renovation would be forged.

Anna nodded. "I will."


End file.
